PRESTON 


# 


THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 


THE  HERITAGE 
OF   THE    HILLS 


BY 

ARTHUR  P.  HANKINS 

Author  of  "THE  JUBILEE  GIRL,"  Etc. 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1922 


COPYEIOHT,    1921,    1922 

BY  DODD.  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  Iico. 


PRINTED    IN    U.    S.    A. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  AT  HONEYMOON   FLAT 1 

II  PETER  DREW'S  LAST  MESSAGE 14 

III  B   FOR   BOLIVIO 23 

IV  THE  FIRST  CALLER 29 

V  "AND  I'LL  HELP  You !" 45 

VI  ACCORDING   TO  THE   RECORDS 50 

VII  LILAC    SPODUMENE 64 

VIII  POISON  OAK  RANCH 74 

IX  NANCY  FIELD'S  WINDFALL 88 

X  JESSAMY'S    HUMMINGBIRD 101 

XI  CONCERNING   SPRINGS  AND   SHOWTJT  POCHE- 

DAKA 112 

XII  THE  POISON  OAKERS  RIDE 130 

XIII  SHINPLASTER  AND  CREEDS 145 

XIV  HIGH  POWER 156 

XV  THE    FIRE    DANCE 165 

XVI  A  GUEST  AT  THE  RANCHO 174 

XVII  THE   GIRL  IN   RED 193 

XVIII  SPIES 205 

XIX  CONTENTIONS  .                                           .     .  216 


2130042 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTZB  PAQ» 

XX    "WAIT!" 227 

XXI    "WHEN  WE  MEET  AGAIN  !" 237 

XXII    THE  WATCHMAN  OP  THE  DEAD 248 

XXIII  THE    QUESTION 264 

XXIV  IN  THE  DEER  PATH 285 

XXV    THE  ANSWER 300 


THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 


The  Heritage  of  the  Hills 

CHAPTER    I 

AT     HALFMOON     FLAT 

THE  road  wound  ever  upward  through 
pines  and  spruce  and  several  varieties 
of  oak.  Some  of  the  latter  were 
straight,  some  sprawling,  all  massive.  Now  and 
then  a  break  in  the  timber  revealed  wooded  hills 
beyond  green  pasture  lands,  and  other  hills 
covered  with  dense  growths  of  buckhorn  and 
manzanita.  Poison  oak  grew  everywhere,  and, 
at  this  time  of  year — early  spring — was  most 
prolific,  most  beautiful  in  its  dark  rich  green, 
most  poisonous. 

Occasionally  the  lone  horseman  crossed  a  riot- 
ous stream,  plunging  down  from  the  snow- 
topped  Sierras  in  the  far  distance.  Rail  fences, 
for  the  most  part  in  a  tumbledown  condition, 
paralleled  the  dirt  road  here  and  there. 
At  long  intervals  they  passed  tall,  old-fashioned 

l 


2  THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

ranch  houses,  with  their  accompanying  stables, 
deciduous  orchards  and  still  dormant  vineyards, 
wandering  turkeys  and  mud-incrusted  pigs.  An 
air  of  decay  and  haphazard  ambition  pervaded 
all  these  evidences  of  the  dwelling  places  of  men. 

"Well,  Poche,"  remarked  Oliver  Drew,  "it's 
been  a  long,  hard  trip,  but  we're  getting  close  to 
home."  The  man  spoke  the  word  "home"  with 
a  touch  of  bitterness. 

The  rangy  bay  saddler  slanted  his  left  ear 
back  at  Oliver  Drew  and  quickened  his  walking- 
trot. 

"No,  no !"  laughed  Oliver,  tightening  the  reins. 
"All  the  more  reason  we  should  take  it  easy  to- 
day, old  horse.  Don't  you  ever  tire?" 

For  an  hour  Poche  climbed  steadily.  Now  he 
topped  the  summit  of  the  miniature  mountain, 
and  Oliver  stopped  him  to  gaze  down  fifteen 
hundred  feet  into  the  timbered  canon  of  the 
American  Kiver.  Even  the  cow-pony  seemed 
enthralled  with  the  grandeur  of  the  scene — the 
wooded  hills  climbing  shelf  by  shelf  to  the  far- 
away mist-hung  mountains;  the  green  river 
winding  its  serpentine  course  far  below.  Far 
up  the  river  a  gold  dredger  was  at  work,  the  low 
rumble  of  its  machinery  carried  on  the  soft 
morning  breeze. 

Half  an  hour  later  Poche  ambled  briskly  into 


AT  HALFMOON  FLAT  3 

the  little  town  of  Halfmoon  Flat,  snuggled  away 
in  the  pines  and  spruces,  sunflecked,  indolent, 
content.  It  suited  Oliver's  mood,  this  lazy  old- 
fashioned  Halfmoon  Flat,  with  its  one  shady 
"business"  street,  its  false-front,  one-story  shops 
and  stores,  redolent  still  of  the  glamorous  days 
of  '49. 

He  drew  up  before  a  saloon  to  inquire  after 
the  road  he  should  take  out  of  town  to  reach  his 
destination.  The  loungers  about  the  door  of 
the  place  all  proved  to  be  French-  or  Spanish- 
Basque  sheep  herders;  and  their  agglutinative 
language  was  as  a  closed  book  to  the  traveler. 
So  he  dropped  the  reins  from  Poche's  neck  and 
entered  the  dark,  low-ceiled  bar-room,  with  its 
many  decorations  of  dusty  deer  antlers  on  fly- 
specked  walls. 

All  was  strangely  quiet  within.  There  were 
no  patrons,  no  bartender  behind  the  black, 
stained  bar.  He  saw  this  white-aproned  person- 
age, however,  a  fat,  wide,  sandy-haired  man, 
standing  framed  by  the  rear  door,  his  back  to- 
ward the  front.  Through  a  dirty  rear  window 
Oliver  saw  men  in  the  back  yard — silent,  mo- 
tionless men,  with  faces  intent  on  something  of 
captivating  interest,  some  silent,  muscle-tens- 
ing event. 

With    awakened   wonder   he   walked   to   the 


4          THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

fat  bartender's  back  and  looked  out  over  his 
shoulder.  Strange  indeed  was  the  scene  that 
was  revealed. 

Perhaps  twenty  men  were  in  an  unfenced  por- 
tion of  the  lot  behind  the  saloon.  Some  of  them 
had  been  pitching  horeshoes,  for  two  stood  with 
the  iron  semicircles  still  in  hand.  Every  man 
there  gazed  with  silent  intensity  at  two  central 
figures,  who  furnished  the  drama. 

The  first,  a  squat,  dark,  slit-eyed  man  of  about 
twenty-five,  lazed  in  a  big  Western  saddle  on  a 
lean  roan  horse.  His  left  spurred  heel  stood 
straight  out  at  right  angles  to  the  direction  in 
which  his  horse  faced.  He  hung  in  the  saddle 
by  the  bend  in  his  right  leg,  the  foot  out  of  the 
stirrup,  the  motionless  man  facing  to  the  right,  a 
leering  grin  on  his  face,  half  whimsical,  half  sar- 
donic. That  he  was  a  fatalist  was  evidenced  by 
every  line  on  his  swarthy,  hairless  face;  for  he 
looked  sneering  indifference  into  the  wavering 
muzzle  of  a  Colt  .45,  in  the  hand  of  the  other 
actor  in  the  pantomime.  His  own  Colt  lay  pas- 
sive against  his  hip.  His  right  forearm  rested 
across  his  thigh,  the  hand  far  from  the  butt  of 
the  weapon.  A  cigarette  drooped  lazily  from 
his  grinning  lips.  Yet  for  all  his  indifferent 
calm,  there  was  in  his  glittering,  Mongolic  eyes 
an  eagle  watchfulness  that  bespoke  the  fires  of 
hatred  within  him. 


AT  HALFMOON  FLAT  5 

The  dismounted  man  who  had  the  drop  on  him 
was  of  another  type.  Tall,  angular,  countrified, 
he  personified  the  popular  conception  of  a  Con- 
necticut yankee.  He  boiled  with  silent  rage  as 
he  stood,  with  long  body  bent  forward,  threaten- 
ing the  other  with  his  enormous  gun.  Despite 
the  present  superiority  of  his  position,  there  was 
something  of  pathos  in  his  lean,  bronzed  face, 
something  of  a  nature  downtrodden,  of  the  worm 
suddenly  turned. 

For  seconds  that  seemed  like  ages  the  two 
statuesque  figures  confronted  each  other.  Men 
breathed  in  short  inhalations,  as  if  fearful  of 
breaking  the  spell.  Then  the  threatened  man  in 
the  saddle  puffed  out  a  cloud  of  cigarette  smoke, 
and  drawled  sarcastically: 

"Well,  why  don't  you  shoot,  ol'-timer?  You 
got  the  drop." 

Complete  indifference  to  his  fate  marked  the 
squat  man's  tone  and  attitude.  Only  those 
small  black  eyes,  gleaming  like  points  of  jet 
from  under  the  lowered  Chinamanlike  lids,  pro- 
claimed that  the  other  had  better  make  a  thor- 
ough piece  of  work  of  this  thing  that  he  had 
started. 

The  lank  man  found  his  tongue  at  the  sound 
of  the  other's  voice. 

"Why  don't  I  shoot,  you  coyote  whelp !  Why 
don't  I  shoot !  You  know  why !  Because  they's 


6          THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

a  law  in  this  land,  that's  why !  I  oughta  kill  ye, 
an'  everybody  here  knows  it,  but  I'd  hang  for 
it." 

The  man  on  the  roan  blew  another  puff  of 
smoke.  "You  oughta  thought  o'  that  when  you 
threw  down  on  me,"  he  lazily  reminded  the  other. 
"You  ain't  got  no  license  packin'  a  gun, 
pardner." 

The  expression  that  crossed  his  antagonist's 
face  was  one  of  torture,  bafflement.  It  proved 
that  he  knew  the  mounted  man  had  spoken 
truth.  He  was  no  killer.  In  a  fit  of  rage  he 
had  drawn  his  weapon  and  got  the  drop  on  his 
enemy,  only  to  shrink  from  the  thought  of  tak- 
ing a  human  life  and  from  the  consequences  of 
such  an  act.  But  he  essayed  to  bluster  his  way 
out  of  the  situation  in  which  his  uncontrollable 
wrath  had  inveigled  him. 

"I  can't  shoot  ye  in  cold  blood!"  he  hotly 
cried.  "I'm  not  the  skunk  that  you  are.  I'm 
too  much  of  a  man.  I'll  let  ye  go  this  time. 
But  mind  me — if  you  or  any  o'  your  thievin' 
gang  pesters  me  ag'in,  I'll — I'll  kill  ye!" 

"Better  attend  to  that  little  business  right 
now,  pardner,"  came  the  fatalist's  smooth  ad- 
monition. 

"Don't  rile  me  too  far!"  fumed  the  other. 
"God  knows  I  could  kill  ye  an'  never  fear  for  the 
hereafter.  But  I'm  a  law-abidin'  man,  an' " — 


AT  HALFMOON  FLAT  7 

the  six-shooter  in  his  hand  was  wavering — "an' 
I'm  a  law-abidin'  man,"  he  repeated,  floundering. 
"So  this  time  I'll  let  ye—" 

A  fierce  clatter  of  hoofs  interrupted  him. 
Down  the  street,  across  the  board  sidewalk,  into 
the  lot  back  of  the  saloon  dashed  a  white  horse, 
a  black-haired  girl  astride  in  the  saddle.  She 
reined  her  horse  to  its  haunches,  scattering  spec- 
tators right  and  left. 

"Don't  lower  that  gun!"  she  shrieked. 
"Shoot!  Kill  him!" 

Her  warning  came  too  late.  It  may  have 
been,  even,  that  instead  of  a  warning  it  was  a 
knell.  For  a  loud  report  sent  the  echoes  gal- 
loping through  the  sleepy  little  town.  The  man 
on  the  ground,  who  had  half  lowered  his  gun  as 
the  girl  raced  in,  threw  up  both  hands,  and  went 
reeling  about  drunkenly.  Another  shot  rang 
out.  The  squat  man  still  lolled  in  his  saddle, 
facing  to  the  right.  The  gun  that  he  had  drawn 
in  a  flash  when  the  other's  indecision  had 
reached  a  climax  was  levelled  rigidly  from  his 
hip,  the  muzzle  slowly  following  his  staggering, 
twice-wounded  enemy. 

In  horror  the  watchers  gazed,  silent.  The 
stricken  man  reeled  against  the  legs  of  the  girl's 
horse,  strove  to  clasp  them.  The  animal  snorted 
at  the  smell  of  blood  and  reared.  His  tempo- 
rary support  removed,  the  man  collapsed,  face 


8          THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

downward,  on  the  ground,  turned  over  once,  lay 
still. 

The  squat  man  slowly  bolstered  his  gun. 
Then  the  first  sound  to  break  the  silence  since 
the  shots  was  his  voice  as  he  spoke  to  the  girl. 

"Much  obliged,  Jess' my,"  he  said;  then 
straightened  in  his  saddle,  spurred  the  roan,  and 
dashed  across  the  sidewalk  to  disappear  around 
the  corner  of  the  building.  A  longdrawn,  deri- 
sive "Hi-yi !"  floated  back,  and  the  clatter  of  the 
roan's  hoofbeats  died  away. 

The  girl  had  sprung  from  her  mare  and 
was  bending  over  the  fallen  man.  The  others 
crowded  about  her  now,  all  talking  at  once. 
She  lifted  a  white,  tragic  face  to  them,  a  face  so 
wildly  beautiful  that,  even  under  the  stress  of 
the  moment,  Oliver  Drew  felt  that  sudden  fierce 
pang  of  desire  which  the  first  startled  sight  of 
"the  one  woman"  brings  to  a  healthy,  manly 
man. 

"He's  dead !     I've  killed  him !"  she  cried. 

"No,  no,  no,  Miss  Jessamy,"  protested  a 
hoarse  voice  quickly.  "You  wasn't  to  blame." 

"O'  course  not!"  chorused  a  dozen. 

"He'd  'a'  lowered  that  gun,"  went  on  her  first 
consoler.  "He  was  backin'  out  when  you  come, 
Miss  Jessamy.  An'  as  sure  as  he'd  took  his  gun 
off  Digger  Foss,  Digger'd  'a'  killed  'im.  It  was 
a  fool  business  from  the  start,  Miss  Jessamy." 


AT  HALFMOON  FLAT  9 

"Then  why  didn't  some  of  you  warn  this 
man?"  she  flamed.  "You  cowards!  Are  you 
afraid  of  Digger  Foss?  Oh,  I—" 

"Now,  looky-here,  Miss  Jessamy,"  soothed  the 
spokesman,  "bein'  afraid  o'  Digger  Foss  ain't 
got  anything  to  do  with  it.  It  wasn't  our  fight. 
We  had  no  call  to  butt  in.  Men  don't  do  that 
in  a  gun  country,  Miss  Jessamy — you  know  that. 
This  fella  pulled  on  Digger,  then  lost  his  nerve. 
What  you  told  'im  to  do,  Miss  Jessamy,  was  right. 
Man  ain't  got  no  call  to  throw  down  on  another 
one  unless  he  intends  to  shoot.  You  know  that, 
Miss  Jessamy — you  as  much  as  said  so." 

For  answer  the  girl  burst  into  tears.  She 
rose,  and  the  silent  men  stood  back  for  her. 
She  mounted  and  rode  away  without  another 
word,  wiping  fiercely  at  her  eyes  with  a  handker- 
chief. 

Four  men  carried  the  dead  man  away.  The 
rest,  obviously  in  need  of  a  stimulant,  crowded 
in  and  up  to  the  black  bar.  Oliver  joined  them. 
The  weird  sight  that  he  had  witnessed  had  left 
him  weak  and  sick  at  the  stomach. 

Silently  the  fat,  blond  bartender  set  out 
whisky  glasses,  then  looked  hesitatingly  at  the 
stranger. 

"Go  ahead,  Swede,"  encouraged  a  big  fellow 
at  Oliver's  left.  "He  needs  one,  too.  He  saw 
it." 


The  bartender  shrugged,  thumped  a  glass  to- 
ward Oliver,  and  broke  the  laws  of  the  land. 

"What  was  it  all  about?"  Oliver,  encouraged 
by  this  confidence,  asked  of  the  big,  goodnatured 
man  who  had  vouched  for  him  on  sight. 

The  other  looked  him  over.  "This  fella 
Dodd,"  he  said,  "started  something  he  couldn't 
finish — that's  all.  Dodd's  had  it  in  for  Digger 
Foss  and  the  Selden  boys  and  some  more  of  'em 
for  a  year.  Selden  was  runnin'  cattle  on  Dodd's 
land,  and  Dodd  claimed  they  cut  fences  to  get 
'em  on.  I  don't  know  what  all  was  between 
'em.  There's  always  bad  blood  between  Old 
Man  Selden  and  his  boys  and  the  rest  o'  the 
Poison  Oakers,  and  somebody. 

"Anyway,"  he  went  on,  "this  mornin'  Henry 
Dodd  comes  in  and  gets  the  drop  on  Digger  Foss, 
who's  thick  with  the  Seldens,  and  is  one  o'  the 
Poison  Oakers;  and  then  Dodd  ain't  got  the 
nerve  to  shoot.  You  saw  what  it  cost  him. 
Fill  'em  up  again,  boys." 

"I  can't  understand  that  girl,"  Oliver  re- 
marked. "Why,  she  rode  in  and  told  the  man  to 
shoot— to  kill." 

"And  wasn't  she  right?" 

"None  of  the  rest  of  you  did  it,  as  she  pointed 
out  to  you." 

"No — men  wouldn't  do  that,  I  reckon.     But 


AT  HALFMOON  FLAT  11 

a  woman's  different.  They  butt  in  for  what 
they  think's  right,  regardless.  But  I  look  at  it 
like  this,  pardner:  Dodd's  a  grown  man  and  is 
packin'  a  hip  gun.  Why's  he  packin'  it  if  he 
don't  mean  to  use  it?  Only  a  kid  ought  to  be 
excused  from  flourishin'  iron  like  he  did.  He 
was  just  lettin'  off  steam.  But  he  picked  the 
wrong  man  to  relieve  himself  on.  If  he'd  'a' 
killed  Digger,  as  Miss  Jessamy  told  him  to, 
maybe  he'd  a  hung  for  it.  But  he'd  a  had  a 
chance  with  a  jury.  Where  if  he  took  his  gat 
offen  Digger  Foss,  it  was  sure  death.  I  knew  it ; 
all  of  us  knew  it.  And  I  knew  he  was  goin'  to 
lower  it  after  he'd  painted  pictures  in  the  air 
with  it  and  thought  he'd  convinced  all  of  us  he 
was  a  bad  man,  and  all  that.  He'd  never  pulled 
the  trigger,  and  Digger  Foss  knew  it." 

"Then  if  this  Digger  Foss  knew  he  was  only 
bluffing,  he — why,  he  practically  shot  the  man  in 
cold  blood !"  cried  Oliver. 

"Not  practically  but  ab-so-lutely.  Digger 
knew  he  was  within  the  law,  as  they  say.  While 
he  knew  Dodd  wouldn't  shoot,  no  prosecutin' 
attorney  can  prove  that  he  knew  it.  Dodd  had 
held  a  gun  on  him  and  threatened  to  kill  'im. 
When  Digger  gets  the  chance  he  takes  it — makes 
his  lightin'  draw  and  kills  Dodd.  On  the  face 
of  it  it's  self-defence,  pure  and  simple,  and  Dig- 


12        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

ger'll  be  acquitted.  He'll  be  in  tonight  and 
give  himself  up  to  the  constable.  He  knows 
just  where  he  stands." 

Oliver's  informant  tossed  off  his  liquor. 
"And  Miss  Jessamy  knew  all  this — see?"  he 
continued.  "She  savvies  gunmen.  She  ought 
to,  bein'  a  Selden.  At  least  she  calls  herself  a 
Selden,  but  her  right  name's  Lomax.  Old  Man 
Selden  married  a  widow,  and  this  girl's  her 
daughter.  Well,  she  rides  in  and  tells  Dodd  to 
shoot.  She  knew  it  was  his  life  or  Digger's, 
after  he'd  made  that  crack.  But  the  poor  fool ! 
— Well,  you  saw  what  happened.  Don't  belong 
about  here,  do  you,  pardner?" 

"I  do  now,"  Oliver  returned.     "I'm  just  mov- 
ing in,  as  it  were.     I  own  forty  acres  down  on 
Clinker  Creek.     I  came  in  here  to  inquire  the 
way,  and  stumbled  onto  this  tragedy." 
"On  Clinker  Creek!     What  forty?" 
"It's  called  the  Old  Tabor  Ivison  Place." 
"Heavens   above!     You   own   the  Old   Tabor 
Ivison  Place?" 

"So  the  recorder's  office  says — or  ought  to." 
For  fully  ten  seconds  the  big  fellow  faced 
Oliver,  his  blue  eyes  studying  him  carefully,  ap- 
praisingly. 

"Well,  by  thunder!"  he  muttered  at  last. 
"Tell  me  about  it,  pardner.  My  name's  Damon 
Tamroy." 


AT  HALFMOON  FLAT  13 

"Mine  is  Oliver  Drew,"  said  Oliver,  offering 
his  hand. 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned!"  ejaculated  Tamroy  in 
a  low  voice,  his  eyes,  wide  with  curiosity,  devour- 
ing Oliver.  "The  Old  Ivison  Place!" 

"You  seem  surprised." 

"Surprised !  Hump !  Say — le'me  tell  you  right 
here,  pardner ;  don't  you  ever  pull  a  gun  on  any 
o'  the  Poison  Oakers  and  act  like  Henry  Dodd 
did.  Maybe  it's  well  you  saw  what  was  pulled 
off  today — if  you'll  only  remember  when  you  get 
down  there  on  the  Tabor  Ivison  Place." 


CHAPTER  II 

PETER  DREW'S  LAST  MESSAGE 

I'LL  take  a  seegar,"  Mr.  Damon  Tamroy  re- 
plied in  response  to  Oliver's  invitation. 
They  lighted  up  and  sat  at  a  card-table 
against  one  wall  of  the  gloomy  saloon. 

"You  speak  of  this  as  a  gun  country,"  re- 
marked Oliver. 

"Well,  it's  at  least  got  traditions,"  returned 
Mr.  Tamroy,  adding  the  unlettered  man's  apol- 
ogy for  his  little  fanciful  flight,  "  'as  the  fella 
says.'  Like  father  like  son,  you  know.  The 
Seldens  are  gunmen.  Old  Adam  Selden's  dad 
was  a  'Forty-niner;  and  Adam  Selden — the  Old 
Man  Selden  of  today — was  born  right  close  to 
here  when  his  dad  was  about  twenty-five  years 
old.  Le's  see — that  makes  Old  Adam  'round 
about  seventy.  But  he's  spry  and  full  o'  pep, 
and  one  o'  the  best  rifle  shots  in  the  country. 

"He  takes  after  the  old  man,  who  was  a  bad 
actor  in  the  days  o'  'Forty-nine,  and  his  boys 
take  after  him.  They're  a  bad  outfit,  takin'  'em 
all  in  all.  The  boys  are  Hurlock,  Moffat,  Bolar, 
and  Winthrop — four  of  'em.  All  gunmen. 

14 


PETER  DREW'S  LAST  MESSAGE        15 

Then  there's  Jessamy  Selden — the  only  girl— 
who  ain't  rightly  a  Selden  at  all.  None  o'  the 
old  man's  blood  in  Jessamy,  o'  course.  Mis' 
Selden — she  was  an  Ivison  before  she  married 
Lomax — Mrytle  Ivison  was  her  name — she's  a 
fine  lady.  But  she  won't  leave  the  old  man  for 
all  his  wickedness,  and  Miss  Jessamy  won't 
leave  her  mother.  So  there  you  are!" 

"I  see,"  said  Oliver  musingly,  not  at  all 
displeased  with  the  present  subject  of  conversa- 
tion. 

"Now,  here's  this  Digger  Foss,"  Tamroy  went 
on.  "He's  half-American,  quarter-Chinaman, 
and  quarter-Digger-Indian.  The  last's  what 
gives  him  his  name.  There's  a  tribe  o'  Digger 
Indians  close  to  here.  He's  killed  two  men  and 
got  away  with  it.  Now  he's  added  a  third  to 
his  list,  and  likely  he'll  get  away  with  that. 
The  rest  o'  the  Poison  Oakers  are  Obed  Pence, 
Ed  Buchanan,  Jay  Muenster,  and  Chuck  Alle- 
gan — ten  in  all." 

"Just  what  are  the  Poison  Oakers?''  Oliver 
asked  as  Damon  Tamroy  paused  reflectively. 

"Well,  anybody  who  lives  in  this  country  is 
called  a  Poison  Oaker.  You're  one  now.  The 
woods  about  this  country  are  full  o'  poison  oak, 
and  that's  where  we  get  the  name.  That's  what 
outsiders  call  us.  But  when  we  ourselves  speak 
of  Poison  Oakers  we  mean  Old  Man  Selden's 


16        THE  HEKITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

gang — him,  his  four  sons,  and  the  hombres  I 
just  mentioned — a  regular  old  back-country 
gang  o'  rowdies,  toughs,  would-be  bad  men. 
You  know  what  I  mean. 

"They  just  drifted  together  by  natural  in- 
stinct, I  reckon.  Old  Man  Selden  shot  a  man 
up  around  Willow  Twig,  and  come  clean  at  the 
trial.  Obed  Pence  is  a  thief,  and  did  a  stretch 
for  cattle  rustlin'  here  about  three  years  ago. 
Chuck  and  Ed  have  both  done  something  to 
make  'em  eligible — knife  fightin'  at  country 
dances,  and  the  like.  And  the  Selden  boys  are 
chips  off  the  old  block." 

"But  what  is  the  gang's  particular  purpose?" 

"Meanness,  s'far's  I  c'n  see!  Just  meanness! 
Old  Man  Selden  owns  a  ranch  down  your  way 
that  you  can  get  to  only  by  a  trail.  No  wheeled 
vehicle  can  get  in.  All  the  boys  live  there  with 
him.  Kind  of  a  colony,  for  two  o'  the  boys  are 
married.  The  other  Poison  Oakers  live  here 
and  there  about  the  country,  on  ranches.  Am- 
bition don't  worry  none  of  'em  much.  Old 
Man  Selden's  said  to  distil  jackass  brandy, 
but  it's  never  been  proved." 

"Now  about  the  Old  Tabor  Ivison  Place?" 
said  Oliver. 

"Well,  it's  there  yet,  I  reckon;  but  I  ain't 
been  down  that  way  for  years.  Now  and  then 


a  deer  hunt  leads  me  into  Clinker  Creek  Canon, 
but  not  often. 

"It's  a  lonely,  deserted  place,  and  the  road  to 
it  is  fierce.  Several  families  lived  down  in 
there  thirty  years  ago;  but  the  places  have  been 
abandoned  long  since,  and  all  the  folks  gone  God 
knows  where.  It's  a  pretty  country  if  a  fella 
likes  trees  and  rocks  and  things,  and  wild  and 
rough;  but  down  in  that  canon  it's  too  cold  for 
pears  and  such  fruit — and  that's  about  all  we 
raise  on  these  rocky  hills. 

"Old  Tabor  Ivison  homesteaded  your  place. 
He's  been  dead  matter  o'  fifteen  years.  Died 
down  there.  For  years  he'd  lived  there  all  by 
'imself.  Good  old  man.  Asked  for  little  in  life 
— and  got  it. 

"But  for  years  now  all  that  country's  been 
abandoned.  There's  pretty  good  pickin's  down 
in  there ;  and  Old  Man  Selden  and  some  more  o' 
the  Poison  Oakers  have  been  runnin'  cattle  on 
all  of  it." 

"I'm  glad  there's  pasture,"  Oliver  interposed. 

"Oh,  pasture's  all  right.  But  Selden's  outfit 
has  looked  at  that  land  as  theirs  for  so  long 
that  you  won't  find  it  particularly  congenial. 
You're  bound  to  have  trouble  with  the  Poison 
Oakers,  Mr  Drew,  and  I'd  consider  the  land  not 
worth  it.  Why,  I  can  buy  a  thousan'  acres  down 


18        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

in  there  for  two  and  a  half  an  acre!  You'll 
starve  to  death  if  you  have  to  depend  on  that 
forty  for  a  livin'.  How  come  you  to  own  the 
place?" 

"My  father  willed  it  to  me,"  Oliver  replied. 

"Your  father?" 

"Yes,  Peter  Drew.  Have  you  ever  heard  of 
him?" 

"No,"  returned  Damon  Tamroy.  "I  reckon 
he  was  here  before  my  time.  How'd  he  come 
by  the  place?  I  thought  one  o'  the  Ivison  girls 
— Nancy — still  owned  it." 

"I'm  sure  I  can't  tell  you  how  Dad  came  to 
own  it,"  Oliver  made  answer.  "I  haven't  an 
abstract  of  title.  I  know,  though,  that  Dad 
owned  it  for  some  time  before  his  death." 

"Well,  well!"  Damon  Tamroy's  eyes  roved 
curiously  over  the  young  man  once  more.  They 
steadied  themselves  on  the  silver-mounted  Span- 
ish spurs  on  Oliver's  riding  boots.  "Travellin' 
horseback?"  he  wanted  to  know,  and  his  look  of 
puzzlement  deepened. 

"Yes,"  said  Oliver  a  little  bitterly.  "I'm  rid- 
ing about  all  that  I  possess  in  this  world,  since 
you  have  pronounced  the  Old  Tabor  Ivison 
Place  next  to  worthless."  He  grew  thoughtful. 
"You're  puzzled  over  me,"  he  smiled  at  last. 
"Frankly,  though,  you're  no  more  puzzled  over 


me  than  I  am  over  myself  and  my  rather  odd  sit- 
uation. I'm  a  man  of  mystery."  He  laughed. 
"I  think  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it. 

"As  far  back  as  I  can  remember,  my  home  has 
been  on  a  cow  ranch  in  the  southern  part  of  the 
state.  I  can't  remember  my  mother,  who  died 
when  I  was  very  young.  I  always  thought  my 
father  wealthy  until  he  died,  two  weeks  ago, 
and  his  will  was  read  to  me.  He  had  orange 
and  lemon  groves  besides  the  cattle  ranch,  and 
was  a  stockholder  in  a  substantial  country 
bank.  I  was  graduated  at  the  State  University, 
and  went  from  there  to  France.  Since,  I've 
been  resting  up  and  sort  of  managing  Dad's 
property. 

"My  father  was  a  peculiar  man,  and  was 
never  overly  confidential  with  me.  He  was 
uneducated,  as  the  term  is  understood  today— 
a  rough-and-ready  old  Westerner  who  had  made 
his  strike  and  settled  down  to  peaceful  days — 
or  so  I  always  imagined.  But  two  weeks  ago 
he  died  suddenly  from  a  stroke  of  apoplexy; 
and  when  his  will  was  read  to  me  I  got  a  jolt 
from  which  I  haven't  yet  recovered. 

"The  home  ranch  and  the  other  real  estate,  to- 
gether with  all  livestock  and  appurtenances— 
with  one  exception,  which  I  shall  mention  later 
— were  willed  to  the  Catholic  Church,  to  be 


20        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

handled  as  they  saw  fit.  It  seemed  that  there 
was  little  else  to  be  disposed  of.  I  wras  left  five 
hundred  dollars  in  cash,  a  saddle  horse  named 
Poche,  a  silver-mounted  bridle  and  saddle  and 
martingales,  the  old  Spanish  spurs  you  see  on 
my  feet,  and  the  Old  Tabor  Ivison  Place,  in 
Chaparral  County,  of  which  I  knew  almost  noth- 
ing. That  was  all — with  the  exception  of  the 
written  instructions  in  my  father's  handwriting 
that  were  given  me  by  his  lawyers.  Maybe  you 
can  throw  some  light  on  the  matter,  Mr.  Tam- 
roy.  Would  you  care  to  hear  my  father's  last 
message  to  me?" 

Tamroy  evinced  his  eagerness  by  scraping  for- 
ward his  chair. 

Oliver  took  from  a  leather  billbook  a  folded 
piece  of  paper.  "I  don't  know  that  I  ought  to," 
he  smiled,  "but,  after  all,  I'll  never  learn  the 
mystery  of  it  if  I  keep  the  matter  from  people 
about  here.  So  here  goes: 

"  'My  dear  sen  Oliver: 

"  'As  you  know  perfectly  well,  I  am  an  igncrant 
old  Westerner.  There  is  no  use  mincing  matters 
in  regard  to  this.  When  I  was  young  I  didn't  have 
much  of  a  chance  to  get  an  education;  but  when  I 
grew  up  and  married,  and  you  was  born,  I  said  you'd 
never  be  allowed  to  grow  up  in  ignorance  like  I  did. 
So  I  tried  to  give  you  an  education,  and  you  didn't 
fail  me.' 


PETER  DREW'S  LAST  MESSAGE         21 

"  'I  did  this  for  a  double  purpose,  Oliver.  I  knew 
that  I  was  going  to  die  someday,  and  that  then  you'd 
have  to  settle  a  little  matter  that's  bothered  me  since 
before  you  was  born.  For  pretty  near  thirty  years, 
Oliver,  I've  had  a  problem  to  fight;  and  I  never  knew 
how  to  settle  the  matter  because  I  wasn't  educated. 
So  I  let  it  rest  and  waited  for  you  to  grow  up,  and  go 
through  college.  And  now  that's  happened;  and 
you're  educated  and  fit  to  answer  the  question  that's 
bothered  me  for  nearly  half  my  life.  The  answer 
is  either  Yes  or  No,  and  you've  got  to  find  out  which 
is  right.' 

"  'I'm  leaving  you  Poche,  the  best  cow  horse  in 
Southern  California,  my  old  silver-mounted  saddle 
that's  carried  me  thousands  of  miles,  the  martin- 
gales, and  my  old  silver-mounted  bridle,  which  same 
three  things  made  me  the  envy  of  all  the  vaqueros 
of  the  Clinker  Creek  Country  over  thirty  years  ago, 
and  my  Spanish  spurs  that  go  along  with  the  outfit. 
These  things,  Oliver,  and  five  hundred  dollars  in 
cash,  and  forty  acres  of  land  on  Clinker  Creek, 
in  Chaparral  county,  called  the  Old  Tabor  Ivison 
Place  ' 

"  'They  are  all  you'll  need  to  find  the  answer  to 
the  question  that's  bothered  me  for  thirty  years. 
Buckle  on  the  spurs,  throw  the  saddle  on  Poche,  bridle 
him,  put  the  five  hundred  dollars  and  the  deed  to  the 
Old  Tabor  Ivison  Place  in  your  jeans,  and  hit  the 
trail  for  Clinker  Creek.  Stay  there  till  you  know 
whether  the  answer  is  Yes  or  No.  Then  go  to  my 


22         THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

lawyers  and  tell  them  which  it  is.    And  the  God  of 
your  mother  go  with  you ! ' 

"  'Your  affectionate  father,' 
"  'PETER  DREW.' 

"  'In  his  seventy-third  year.'  ' 

Oliver    folded    the    paper.    Damon    Tamroy 
only  sat  and  stared  at  him. 


CHAPTER  III 

B  FOR  BOLIVIO 

"1  ^JOY,"  said  the  kindly  Mr.  Tamroy,  lean- 
~"^  ing  forward  toward  Oliver  Drew,  "those 

-*^--^  are  the  queerest  last  words  of  a  father 
to  his  son  that  I  ever  listened  to.  What  on 
earth  you  goin'  to  do?" 

Oliver  shrugged  and  spread  his  hands. 
"Keep  on  obeying  instructions,"  he  said.  "I've 
followed  them  to  the  letter  so  far.  I'm  only  a 
few  miles  from  my  destination,  and  I've  ridden 
in  the  silver-mounted  saddle  on  Poche's  back  the 
entire  five  hundred  miles  and  over.  My  father 
was  not  a  fool.  He  was  of  sound  mind,  I  fully 
believe,  when  he  wrote  that  message  for  me. 
There's  some  deep  meaning  underlying  all 
this.  I  must  simply  stay  on  the  Old  Tabor  Ivi- 
son  Place  till  I  know  what  puzzled  old  Dad  all 
those  years,  and  find  out  whether  the  answer  is 
Yes  or  No." 

"Heavens  above!"  muttered  Mr.  Tamroy. 
"But  how  you  goin'  to  live?  What' re  you  goin' 
to  do  down  in  there?  Gonta  get  a  job?  It's 

23 


24         THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

too  far  away  from  everything  for  you  to  go  and 
come  to  a  job,  Mr.  Drew." 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  Oliver.  "At  the  Univer- 
sity I  took  an  agricultural  course.  Since  my 
graduation  I  have  written  not  a  few  articles  and 
sold  them  to  leading  farm  journals.  If  the 
Old  Tabor  Ivison  Place  is  of  any  value  at  all,  I 
want  to  experiment  in  raising  all  sorts  of  things 
on  a  small  scale,  and  write  articles  about  my  re- 
sults. I'll  have  a  few  stands  of  bees,  and  maybe 
a  cow.  I'll  try  all  sorts  of  things,  get  a  second- 
hand typewriter,  and  go  to  it.  I  think  I  can 
live  while  I'm  waiting  for  my  father's  big  ques- 
tion to  crop  up." 

"You  can  raise  a  garden  all  right,  I  reckon," 
Oliver's  new  friend  told  him,  following  him  as 
he  rose  to  continue  his  journey.  "But  you  got 
to  irrigate,  and  there  ain't  the  water  in  Clinker 
Creek  there  used  to  be.  Folks  up  near  the 
headwaters  use  nearly  all  of  it,  and  in  the 
hot  months  what  they  turn  back  will  all  go 
up  in  evaporation  before  it  gets  down  to  you. 
There's  a  good  spring,  though,  but  it  strikes  me 
it  don't  flow  anything  like  it  did  when  Old  Ta 
bor  Ivison  lived  on  the  land." 

"Is  there  a  house  on  the  place?" 

"Only  an  old  cabin.  At  least  there  was  last 
time  I  chased  a  buck  down  in  there.  And  some- 
thing of  a  fence,  if  I  remember  right.  But  fif- 


B  FOR  BOLIVIO  25 

teen  years  is  a  long  time — I  reckon  everything 
left  is  next  to  worthless." 

They  came  to  a  pause  at  the  edge  of  the  side- 
walk beside  an  aged  villager,  who  stood  lean- 
ing on  his  crooked  manzanita  cane  as  he  gazed 
at  Poche  and  his  silver-mounted  trappings. 

"That's  Old  Dad  Sloan,"  whispered  Damon 
Tamroy.  "He's  one  o'  the  last  of  the  'Forty- 
niners.  Just  hobbles  about  on  his  cane,  livin' 
off  the  county,  and  waitin'  to  die.  Never  saw 
him  take  much  interest  in  anything  before,  but 
that  outfit  o'  yours  has  caught  his  eye.  Little 
wonder,  by  golly!" 

Oliver  stepped  into  the  street  and  lifted  the 
hair-tassled  reins  of  the  famous  bridle.  He 
turned  to  find  the  watery  blue  eyes  of  the  patri- 
arch fixed  on  him  intently.  With  a  trembling 
left  hand  the  old  man  brushed  back  his  long 
grey  hair,  then  the  fingers  shakily  caressed  a 
grizzled  beard,  flaring  and  wiry  as  excelsior. 
A  long  finger  at  length  pointed  to  the  horse. 

"Where'd  you  get  that  outfit,  young  feller?" 
came  the  quavering  tones. 

Mr.  Tamroy  winked  knowingly  at  Oliver. 

"It  was  'my  father's,"  said  Oliver  in  eager 
tones. 

The  'Forty-niner  cupped  a  hand  back  of  his 
ear.  "Hey?"  he  shrilled. 

Oliver  lifted  his  voice  and  repeated. 


26         THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Yer  papy's  hey?"  He  tottered  into  the  street 
and  fingered  the  heavily  silvered  Spanish  half- 
breed  bit,  which,  Oliver  had  been  told,  was 
very  valuable  intrinsically  and  as  a  relic. 
Then  the  knotty  fingers  travelled  up  an  intri- 
cately plaited  cheekstrap  to  one  of  the  glitter- 
ing silver-bordered  conchas.  The  old  fellow 
fumbled  for  his  glasses,  placed  them  on  his  nose, 
and  studied  the  last  named  conceit  with  careful, 
lengthy  scrutiny.  "Is  that  there  glass,  young 
feller?"  he  croaked  at  last,  pointing  to  the  set- 
ting of  the  concha,  a  lilac-hued  crystal  about 
two  inches  in  diameter. 

"I  think  it  is,"  Oliver  shouted. 

The  old  man  shook  his  head.  "I  can't  see 
•well  any  more,"  he  quavered.  "But  this  don't 
look  like  glass  to  me." 

"I've  never  had  it  examined,"  Oliver  told  him. 
"I  supposed  the  settings  of  the  conchas  to  be 
glass  or  some  sort  of  quartz." 

"Quartz?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  grey  head  slowly  shook  back  and  forth. 
"Young  man,"  came  the  piping  tones,  "is  they 
a  *B'  cut  in  the  metal  that  holds  them  stones  in 
place?" 

Oliver's  eyes  widened.  "There  is,"  he  said. 
"On  the  inside  of  each  one." 

The  old  man  stared  at  him,  and  his  bearded 


B  FOR  BOLIVIO  27 

lips  trembled.     "Bolivio!"  he  croaked  weirdly. 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Oliver. 

"Bolivio  made  them  conchas,  young  feller. 
Bolivio  made  that  bit.  Bolivio  plaited  that 
bridle.  Bolivio  made  them  martingales." 

"And  who  is  Bolivio?"  puzzled  the  stranger. 

"Dead  and  gone — dead  and  gone!"  crooned 
the  ancient.  "That  outfit's  maybe  a  hundred 
years  old,  young  feller — part  of  it,  'tleast.  And 
that  ain't  glass  in  there — and  it  ain't  quartz  in 
in  there — and  there's  only  one  man  ever  in  this 
country  ever  had  a  bridle  like  that." 

"And  who  was  he?"  asked  Oliver  almost 
breathlessly. 

"Dan  Smeed — that's  who!  Dan  Smeed — 
outlaw,  highwayman,  squawman!  Dan  Smeed 
— gone  these  thirty  years  and  more.  That's  his 
bridle — that's  his  saddle — all  made  by  Bolivio, 
maybe  a  hundred  years  ago.  And  them  stones 
in  them  conchas  are  gems  from  the  lost  mine  o* 
Bolivio.  The  lost  gems  o'  Bolivio,  young  fel- 
ler!" 

Oliver  and  Tamroy  stared  into  each  other's 
eyes  as  the  old  man  tottered  back  to  the  side- 
walk. 

"Tell  me  more!"  cried  Oliver,  as  the  ancient 
began  tapping  his  crooked  cane  along  the  street. 

There  was  no  answer. 

"He  didn't  hear,"  said  Tamroy.     "We'll  get 


28        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

at  him  again  sometime.  Maybe  he'll  tell  what 
he  knows  and  maybe  he  won't.  He's  awful 
childish — awful  headstrong.  For  days  at  a 
time  he  won't  speak  to  a  soul." 

Oliver  stood  in  deep  thought,  mystified  be- 
yond measure,  yet  thrilled  with  the  thought 
that  he  was  nearing  the  beginning  of  the  trail 
to  the  mysterious  question.  He  roused  himself 
at  length. 

"Well,  I  must  be  getting  along,"  he  said. 
"I'll  go  right  down  to  Clinker  Creek  now,  if 
you'll  point  the  way.  I've  enough  grub  behind 
my  saddle  for  tonight  and  tomorrow  morning. 
There's  grass  for  the  horse  at  present?" 

"Oh,  yes — horse'll  get  along  all  right." 

"Then  I'll  go  down  and  give  my  property  the 
once-over,  and  be  up  tomorrow  to  get  what  I 
need." 

Damon  Tamroy  showed  him  the  road  and 
shook  hands  with  him.  "Ride  up  and  get  ac- 
quainted regular  someday,"  he  invited.  "I  got 
a  little  ranch  up  the  line — pears  and  apples  and 
things.  Give  you  some  cherries  a  little  later 
on.  Well,  so-long.  Remember  the  Poison  Oak- 
ers !" 

Oliver  galloped  away,  his  flashing  equipment 
the  target  of  all  eyes,  on  the  road  that  led  to  the 
Old  Tabor  Ivison  Place,  his  brain  in  a  whirl  of 
excitement. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  FIRST  CALLER 

TOWARD  noon  Poche  was  carefully  feel- 
ing his  way  down  the  rocky  canon  of 
Clinker  Creek,  over  a  forgotten  road. 
Oliver  walked,  for  Poche  needs  must  scramble 
over  huge  boulders,  fallen  pines,  and  tangles  of 
driftwood.  The  road  followed  the  course  of 
the  creek  for  the  most  part,  and  in  many  places 
the  creek  had  broken  through  and  washed  great 
gaps. 

But  the  country  was  delightful.  Wild  grape- 
vines grew  in  profusion  at  the  creekside,  grace- 
fully festooned  from  overhanging  buckeye  limbs. 
Odorous  alders,  several  varieties  of  willow, 
and  white  oak  also  followed  the  watercourse; 
and  up  on  the  hills  on  either  side  were  black 
oaks  and  live  oaks,  together  with  yellow  and 
sugar  and  digger  pines,  and  spruce.  Every- 
where grew  the  now  significant  poison  oak. 

Finally  Poche  scraped  through  chaparral 
that  almost  hid  the  road  and  came  out  in  a 
clearing.  Oliver  at  last  stood  looking  at  his  fu- 
ture home. 

29 


30        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

A  quaint  old  cabin,  with  a  high  peaked  roof, 
apparently  in  better  repair  than  he  had  ex- 
pected, stood  on  a  little  rise  above  the  creek. 
The  canon  widened  here,  and  narrowed  again 
farther  down.  The  creek  bowed  and  followed 
the  base  of  the  steep  hills  to  the  west.  A  level 
strip  of  land  comprising  about  an  acre  paral- 
leled the  creek,  and  invited  tillage.  All  about 
the  clearing,  perhaps  fifteen  acres  in  area,  stood 
tall  pines  and  spruce,  and  magnificent  oaks  rose 
aljove  the  cabin,  their  great  limbs  sprawled  over 
it  protectingly.  Acres  and  acres  of  heavy,  im- 
penetrable chaparral  covered  both  steep  slopes 
beyond  the  conifers. 

For  several  minutes  Oliver  drank  in  the 
beauty  of  it,  then  heaved  himself  into  the  saddle 
and  galloped  to  the  cabin  over  the  unobstructed 
land. 

He  loosed  Poche  when  the  saddle  and  bridle 
were  off,  and  the  horse  eagerly  buried  his  muzzle 
in  the  tall  green  grass.  Up  in  the  branches 
paired  California  linnets,  red  breasted  for  their 
love  season,  went  over  plans  and  specifications 
for  nest-building  with  much  conversation  and 
flit-flit  of  feathered  wings.  Wild  canaries  en- 
gaged in  a  like  pursuit.  Overhead  in  the  heav- 
ens an  eagle  sailed.  From  the  sunny  chapar- 
ral came  the  scolding  quit-quit-quit  of  mother 


THE  FIRST  CALLER  31 

quail,  while  the  pompous  cocks  perched  them- 
selves at  the  tops  of  manzanita  bushes  and 
whistled,  "Cut  that  out!  Cut  that  out!"  All 
Nature  was  home-building;  and  Oliver  forgot 
the  loss  of  the  fortune  he  had  expected  at  his 
father's  death  and  caught  the  spirit. 

He  collected  oak  limbs  and  built  a  fire.  He 
carried  water  from  the  creek  and  set  it  on  to 
boil.  While  waiting  for  this  he  strolled  about, 
revelling  in  the  soft  spring  air,  fragrant  with 
the  smell  of  wild  flowers. 

That  the  cabin  had  been  occupied  often  by 
hunters  and  other  wanderers  in  the  canon  was 
evidenced  by  the  many  carvings  on  the  door  and 
signs  of  bygone  campflres  all  about.  He  stepped 
upon  the  rotting  porch  and  studied  the  mon- 
ograms, initials,  and  flippant  messages  of  the 
lonely  men  who  had  passed  that  way. 

"'All  hope  abandon,  ye  who  enter  here"  was 
carved  in  ancient  letters  just  under  the  lintel  of 
the  door.  Next  he  was  informed  that  "Fools 
names,  like  their  faces,  Are  always  seen  in  pub- 
lic places."  "Only  a  sucker  would  live  here" 
was  the  parting  decision  of  some  disgruntled 
guest.  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  adorned  the  bot- 
tom of  the  door.  One  panel  had  proved  an  ex- 
cellent target,  and  no  less  than  twenty  bullet 
holes  had  made  a  sieve  of  it.  "Welcome,  Wan- 
derer!" and  "Dew  Drop  Inn"  and  "Though  lost 


32 


THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 


to  sight  to  memory  dear"  occupied  conspicuous 
places.  Then  on  the  right-hand  frame  he  no- 
ticed this: 


The  carving  was  neatly  executed.  The  leaves 
represented  were  indisputably  those  of  the  poi- 
son oak. 

Had  some  one  carved  this  in  a  jocular  effort 
to  warn  chance  visitors  to  the  place  of  the  dan- 
ger of  the  poison  weed?  Or  did  the  carving  rep- 
resent the  emblem  of  the  Poison  Oakers? 

Oliver  smiled  grimly  and  opened  the  door. 

He  passed  through  the  three  small  rooms  of 
the  house  and  investigated  the  loft.  The  struc- 
ture seemed  solid.  A  new  roof  would  be  neces- 
sary, and  new  windows  and  frames  and  a  new 
porch ;  and  as  Oliver  was  no  mean  carpenter,  he 
thought  he  could  make  the  cabin  snug  and  tight 
for  seventy-five  dollars. 


THE  FIRST  CALLER  33 

The  front  door  had  closed  of  itself,  he  found, 
when  he  started  back  to  his  campflre.  He 
stopped  in  the  main  room,  and  a  smile,  slightly 
bitter,  flickered  across  his  lips.  As  neatly 
carved  as  was  the  symbol  of  the  Poison  Oakers 
outside — if  that  was  what  it  was — and  evidently 
executed  by  the  same  hand,  was  this,  on  the  in- 
side of  the  door : 

JESSAMY,  MY  SWEETHEART 

Oliver  went  on  out  and  squatted  over  his  fire, 
peeling  potatoes.  His  blue  eyes  grew  studious. 
In  the  flickering  blaze  he  saw  the  picture  of  a 
black-eyed,  black-haired  girl  on  a  white  horse 
crouched  on  its  haunches. 

"Great  Scott!"  he  muttered.  "I'll  have  to 
forget  that!" 

In  the  month  that  followed,  Oliver  Drew, 
spurred  by  feverish  enthusiasm,  worked  mira- 
cles on  the  Old  Tabor  Ivison  Place.  He  re- 
paired the  line  fences  and  rehabilitated  the 
cabin;  bought  a  burro  and  pack-saddle  and 
packed  in  lumber  and  tools  and  household  ne- 
cessities; fenced  off  his  experimental  garden  on 
the  level  land  with  rabbit-tight  netting;  cleaned 
and  boxed  the  spring;  and  early  in  May  was 
following  the  spading  up  of  his  garden  plot  by 
planting  vegetable  seed. 


34         THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

With  all  this  behind  him,  he  went  at  the  clear- 
ing of  the  road  that  connected  him  with  his 
kind.  Today  as  he  laboured  with  pick  and 
shovel  and  bar  he  was  cheerful,  though  his 
thoughts  clung  to  the  subject  of  his  father's 
death  and  the  odd  situation  in  which  it  had  left 
him.  He  had  fully  expected  to  inherit  proper- 
ties and  money  to  the  extent  of  a  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars.  He  was  not  particularly  resent- 
ful because  this  had  not  come  to  pass,  for  he 
never  had  been  a  pampered  young  man ;  but  the 
mystery  of  his  father's  last  message  puzzled  and 
chagrined  him. 

He  would  always  remember  Peter  Drew  as  a 
peculiar  man.  He  had  been  a  kindly  father,  but 
a  reticent  one.  There  were  many  pages  in  his 
past  that  never  had  been  opened  to  his  son. 
Oliver  was  the  child  of  Peter  Drew's  second 
wife.  About  the  queer  old  Westerner's 
former  marriage  he  had  been  told  practically 
nothing. 

Believing  his  father  to  have  been  of  sound 
mind  when  he  penned  that  last  strange  commu- 
nication, Oliver  could  not  hold  that  the  situa- 
tion which  it  imposed  was  not  for  the  best. 
Surely  old  Peter  Drew  had  had  some  wise  rea- 
son for  his  act,  and  in  the  end  Oliver  would 
know  what  it  was.  He  had  been  told  to  seek  the 
Clinker  Creek  Country  to  learn  the  question 


THE  FIRST  CALLER  35 

that  had  puzzled  his  father  for  thirty  years,  to 
decide  whether  the  proper  answer  was  Yes  or 
No,  and  communicate  his  decision  to  his  father's 
lawyers.  That  was  all.  When  in  the  wisdom 
which  his  father  had  supposed  would  be  the  nat- 
ural result  of  his  son's  university  training  he 
had  made  his  decision  and  placed  it  before  these 
legal  gentlemen,  what  would  happen?  Specula- 
tion over  this  led  nowhere. 

At  first  it  had  seemed  to  Oliver  that  the  mis- 
sion with  which  he  had  been  intrusted  was  more 
or  less  a  secret  matter,  and  that  he  must  keep 
still  about  it.  Then  as  the  staunch  cow-pony 
bore  him  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  Clinker  Creek 
Country  it  gradually  dawned  upon  him  that, 
by  so  doing,  he  might  stand  a  poor  chance  of 
even  finding  out  what  had  puzzled  his  sire. 
To  say  nothing  of  the  answer  which  he  was  to 
seek.  It  was  then  he  decided  that  he  had  noth- 
ing to  hide  and  must  place  his  situation  before 
the  people  of  the  country  who  would  likely  be 
able  to  help  him.  Hence  his  confidences  to  Mr. 
Damon  Tamroy. 

Tamroy  had  aided  him  not  at  all;  but  the 
'Forty-niner,  Old  Dad  Sloan,  knew  something. 
Dan  Smeed,  outlaw,  highwayman,  had  owned  a 
saddle  and  bridle  like  Oliver's.  The  old  man 
had  mysteriously  mentioned  the  lost  mine  of 
Bolivio,  and  had  said  the  settings  in  Oliver's 


36         THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

conchas  were  gems.     If  only  the  old  man  could 
be  made  to  talk! 

The  muffled  thud  of  a  horse's  hoofs  came  be- 
tween the  strokes  of  Oliver's  pick.  With  an 
odd  and  unfamiliar  sensation  he  glimpsed  a 
white  horse  and  rider  approaching  through  the 
pines. 

It  was  she — Jessamy  Selden — the  black- 
haired,  black-eyed  girl  of  whom  he  reluctantly 
had  thought  so  often  since  his  first  day  in  the 
Clinker  Creek  Country. 

She  was  riding  straight  down  the  canon,  the 
white  mare  gingerly  picking  her  way  between 
boulders  and  snarls  of  driftwood.  The  girl 
looked  up.  Oliver  felt  that  she  saw  him.  Her 
ears  could  not  have  been  insensible  to  the  ring 
of  his  pick  on  the  flinty  stones.  She  did  not 
leave  the  trail,  however,  but  continued  on  in 
his  direction. 

He  rested  on  the  handle  of  his  tool  and 
waited. 

"Good  morning,"  he  ventured,  sweeping  off  his 
battered  hat,  as  the  mare  stopped  without  pres- 
sure on  the  reins  and  gravely  contemplated 
him. 

The  girl  smiled  and  returned  his  greeting 
brightly. 

"If  you  had  waited  a  few  days  longer  for 


THE  FIRST  CALLER  37 

your  ride  down  here,"  said  Oliver,  "I'd  have 
had  a  better  trail  for  you." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  that  I  want  it  any  better," 
she  laughed.  "I  like  things  pretty  much  as 
they  are,  when  Old  Mother  Nature  has  built 
them.  I  ride  down  this  way  frequently." 

She  was  no  fragile  reed,  this  girl.  She  was 
rather  more  substantially  built  than  most  mem- 
bers of  her  sex.  Her  figure  was  straight  and 
tall  and  rounded,  and  her  strong,  graceful  neck 
upreared  itself  proudly  between  sturdy  should- 
ers. Grace  and  strength,  rather  than  purely 
feminine  beauty,  predominated  in  the  impres- 
sion she  created  in  Oliver.  She  wore  a  man's 
Stetson  hat  over  her  lavish  crown  of  coal-black 
hair,  a  man's  flannel  shirt,  a  whipcord  divided 
skirt,  and  dark-russet  riding  boots.  The  sad- 
dle that  she  rode  in  had  not  been  built  for  a 
woman  to  handle,  and,  with  its  long,  pointed 
tapaderos,  must  have  weighed  close  to  fifty 
pounds.  The  steady,  friendly,  confident  gaze 
of  her  large  black  eyes  was  thrilling.  A  man 
instinctively  felt  that,  if  he  could  win  this 
woman,  he  would  have  acquired  a  wife  among  a 
thousand,  a  loyal  friend  and  comrade,  and  a 
partner  who  could  and  would  shoulder  more 
than  a  woman's  share  of  their  load. 

Still,  Oliver  knew  nothing  at  all  about  her. 


38         THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

What  he  had  heard  of  her  was  not  exactly  of 
the  best.  Yet  he  felt  that  she  was  gloriously  all 
right,  and  did  not  try  to  argue  otherwise. 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  must  introduce  myself 
first,"  she  was  saying  in  her  full,  ringing  tones. 
"I'm  Jessamy  Selden.  My  name  is  not  Selden, 
though,  but  Lomax.  When  my  mother  married 
Adam  Selden  I  took  her  new  name.  I  heard 
somebody  had  moved  onto  the  Old  Ivison  Place, 
and  I  deliberately  rode  down  to  get  acquainted." 

"You  waited  a  month,  I  notice,"  Oliver  laugh- 
ingly reproached.  "My  name  is  Oliver  Drew. 
If  you'll  get  off  your  horse  I'll  tell  you  what  a 
wonderful  man  I  am." 

She  swung  to  the  ground  and  held  out  a 
strong,  brown,  ungloved  hand. 

"I'll  walk  to  your  cabin  with  you,"  she  said, 
"if  you'll  invite  me.  I'd  like  to  see  how  you've 
been  improving  your  time  since  your  arrival." 

Scarce  able  to  find  words  with  which  to  meet 
such  delightful  frankness,  Oliver  walked  beside 
her,  the  white  mare  following  and  nosing  at  his 
pockets  to  prove  that  she  was  a  privileged  char- 
acter. 

The  girl  loosed  her  within  the  inclosure,  and 
let  her  drag  her  reins.  Poche  trotted  up  to 
make  the  white's  acquaintance,  followed  by  the 
new  mouse-coloured  burro,  Smith,  who  long 


THE  FIRST  CALLER  39 

since  had  assumed  a  "where  thou  goest  I  will 
go"  affection  for  the  bay  saddler. 

Jessamy  Selden  came  to  a  stop  before  the 
cabin,  her  black  eyes  dancing. 

"Who  would  have  thought,"  she  said  in  low 
tones,  "that  the  Clinker  Creek  people  ever 
would  see  the  old  Ivison  cabin  rebuilt  arid 
inhabited  once  more!  How  sturdily  it  must 
have  been  built  to  stand  up  against  wind  and 
storm  all  these  years.  Are  you  going  to  invite 
me  in  and  show  me  around?"  She  levelled  that 
direct  glance  at  him  and  showed  her  white  teeth 
in  a  smile. 

Oliver  was  thinking  of  the  carving  on  the  in- 
side of  the  old  door,  "Jessamy,  My  Sweetheart." 
He  had  not  replaced  the  door  with  a  newr  one, 
for  every  penny  counted.  It  still  was  service- 
able; and,  besides,  there  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of 
companionship  about  the  carved  observations  of 
the  unknowns  who  had  been  sheltered  by  the  old 
cabin  during  the  past  fifteen  years. 

"You've  been  in  the  house  often,  I  suppose?" 
He  made  it  a  question. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said.  "I've  lunched  in  it  many 
a  time,  and  have  run  in  out  of  the  rain  during 
winter  months.  I  slept  in  it  all  night  once." 

"You  seem  to  be  an  independent  sort  of  young 
woman,"  suggested  Oliver. 


40        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"I'm  a  rather  lonely  sort  of  woman,  if  that's 
what  you  mean,"  she  replied.  "Yes,  I  ride 
about  lots  alone.  I  like  it.  Don't  you  want  me 
to  go  in?" 

"Er — why,  certainly,"  he  stammered.  "Please 
don't  think  me  inhospitable.  Come  on." 

He  led  the  way,  and  stood  back  for  her  at  the 
door.  He  would  leave  the  door  open,  swung  back 
into  the  corner,  he  thought,  so  that  she  would 
not  see  the  carving.  She  had  been  in  the  cabin 
many  times.  Did  she  know  the  carving  to  be 
there?  Of  course  it  might  have  been  executed 
since  her  last  visit,  though  it  did  not  seem  very 
fresh.  Who  had  carved  the  words?  Oliver 
could  imagine  any  of  the  young  Clinker  Creek 
swains  as  being  secretly  in  love  with  this  marvel- 
lous girl,  and  pouring  out  his  tortured  soul 
through  the  blade  of  his  jack-knife  when  se- 
curely hidden  from  profane  eyes  in  this  vast 
wilderness. 

She  passed  complimentary  remarks  about  his 
practically  built  home-made  furniture,  and  the 
neatness  and  necessary  simplicity  of  everything. 

"What  an  old  maid  you  are  for  one  so  young !" 
she  laughed.  "And,  please,  what's  the  type- 
writer for— if  I'm  not  too  bold?" 

"Well,"  said  Oliver,  "it  occurred  to  me  that  I 
must  make  a  living  down  here.  I'm  a  graduate 
of  the  State  College  of  Agriculture,  and  I  like  to 


THE  FIRST  CALLER  41 

farm  and  write  about  it.  I've  sold  several  arti- 
cles to  agricultural  papers.  I'm  going  to  experi- 
ment here,  and  try  to  make  a  living  by  writing 
up  the  results!" 

"Why,  how  perfectly  fine!"  she  cried  enthu- 
siastically. "I  couldn't  imagine  anything  more 
engrossing.  I'm  a  State  University  girl." 

"You  don't  say!" 

And  this  furnished  a  topic  for  ten  minutes' 
conversation. 

"If  you're  as  good  a  writer  and  farmer  as  you 
are  tinker  and  carpenter,"  she  observed,  passing 
into  the  front  room  again,  "you'll  do  splendidly." 
She  was  standing,  straight  as  a  young  spruce, 
hands  on  hips,  looking  with  twinkling  eyes  at 
the  open  door.  "The  old  door  still  hangs,  I 
Bee,"  she  murmured.  "Now  just  why  didn't  you 
replace  it,  Mr.  Drew?" 

Oliver  looked  apprehensive.  "Well,"  he  re- 
plied hesitatingly,  "for  several  reasons.  First, 
a  new  door  costs  money,  and  so  would  the  lumber 
with  which  to  make  one — and  I  haven't  much  of 
that  article.  Second,  I  get  some  amusement 
from  looking  at  those  old  carvings  and  speculat- 
ing on  the  possible  personalities  of  the  carvers. 
For  all  I  know,  some  great  celebrities'  ideas  may 
be  among  those  expressed  there — some  future 
great  man,  at  any  rate.  The  boy  one  meets  in 
the  Street  may  one  day  be  president,  you  know. 


42         THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

Then  there's  a  sort  of  companionship  about  those 
names  and  monograms  and  quotations.  The 
fellow  that  informs  me  that  only  suckers  live 
here  I'd  like  to  meet.  He  was  so  blunt  about  it, 
so  sure.  He — er — " 

Smiling,  she  had  stepped  to  the  door  and, 
arms  still  akimbo,  allowed  her  glance  to  travel 
from  one  design  to  another.  She  raised  an  arm 
and  levelled  a  finger. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that  one?"  she  asked. 

"Well,"  said  Oliver,  "that's  a  rather  well  exe- 
cuted poison  oak  leaf.  The  hills  are  covered 
with  the  plant.  I  imagine  that  some  wanderer 
not  immune  from  the  poison  came  into  contact 
with  it,  and,  though  his  eyes  were  swelled  half 
shut  and  his  fingers  itched  and  tingled,  his  right 
hand  had  not  lost  its  cunning.  So  he  took  out 
his  trusty  blade  and  carved  a  warning  for  all 
future  pilgrims  who  chanced  this  way  to  beware 
of  this  tree  that  is  in  the  midst  of  the  garden, 
and  to  not  touch  it  lest  they — " 

"Itch,"  Jessamy  gravely  put  in.  "Quite 
pretty  and  poetic,"  she  supplemented.  "But  you 
are  entirely  wrong,  Mr.  Drew.  That  carving  is, 
first  of  all,  a  copy  of  the  brand  of  Old  Man  Sel- 
den,  and  you'll  find  it  on  all  his  cows.  All  but 
the  word  'Beware,'  of  course,  you  understand. 
Second,  it  represents  the  silly  symbol  of  a  gang 
that  infests  this  country  known  as  the  Poison 


THE  FIRST  CALLER  43 

Oakers.  Oh,  you've  heard  of  them!"  she  had 
turned  suddenly  and  surprised  the  look  on  his 
face. 

"It  sounds  very  bloodthirsty,"  he  laughed  con- 
fusedly. 

"I'll  tell  you  more,  then,  when  I  know  you 
better,"  she  said.  "No,  I'll  tell  you  today,"  she 
added  quickly. 

Then  before  he  could  make  a  move  she  had 
closed  the  door  to  examine  what  might  be  carved 
on  the  inner  side. 

"Tell  me  now,"  said  Oliver  quickly.  "Try  this 
chair  here  by  the  window.  I'm  rather  proud  of 
this  one.  It's  my  first  attempt  at  a  morris  ch — " 

"Come  here,  please,"  she  commanded,  standing 
with  her  back  to  him. 

"Don't  act  so  like  a  boy,"  she  reproved  as  he 
dutifully  stepped  up  behind  her.  "Anybody 
would  know  you  are  clumsily  trying  to  detract 
my  attention  from — that." 

The  brown  finger  was  pointing  straight  at 
JESSAMY,  MY  SWEETHEART. 

She  turned  and  levelled  her  frank,  unabashed 
eyes  straight  at  his. 

"So  that's  why  you  hesitated  about  inviting 
me  in,"  she  stated,  her  lips  twitching  and  dim- 
ples appearing  and  disappearing  in  her  cheeks. 

"Frankly,  yes,"  he  told  her  gravely. 


44        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

Her  glance  did  not  leave  him.  "Mr.  Tamroy 
told  me  he  had  mentioned  me  to  you/'  she  said. 
"So  of  course  you  knew,  when  you  saw  this  carv- 
ing, that  I  was  the  subject  of  the  raving.  And 
when  you  saw  me  you  wished  to  spare  me  embar- 
rassment. Thank  you.  But  you  see  I'm  not 
at  all  embarrassed.  I  have  never  before  seen 
this  masterpiece  in  wood,  and  imagine  it  has 
been  done  since  I  was  in  the  cabin  last.  Let's 
see — I  doubt  if  I've  been  inside  for  a  year  or 
more.  I  think  perhaps  Mr.  Digger  Foss  is  the 
one  who  tried  to  make  his  emotions  deathless  by 
this  work  of  art.  'Jessamy,  My  Sweetheart/ 
eh?"  She  threw  back  her  glorious  head  and 
laughed  till  two  tears  streamed  down  her  tanned 
cheeks.  "Poor  Digger !"  she  said  soberly  at  last. 
"I  suppose  he  does  love  me." 

"Who  wouldn't,"  thought  Oliver,  but  bit  his 
lips  instead  of  speaking. 

"You  may  leave  that,  Mr.  Drew,"  she  told 
him,  "until  you  get  ready  to  replace  the  old  door 
with  a  new  one.  I  would  not  have  the  irrefuta- 
ble evidence  of  at  least  one  conquest  blotted  out 
for  worlds.  Now  let's  go  out  in  that  glorious 
sunlight,  and  I'll  tell  you  about  Old  Man  Selden 
and  the  Poison  Oakers." 


CHAPTER  V 

"AND  I'LL  HELP  YOU  !" 

WHAT  Jessamy  Selden  told  Oliver 
Drew  of  the  Poison  Oakers  was  about 
the  same  as  he  had  heard  from 
Damon  Tamroy. 

She  used  his  sawbuck  for  a  seat,  and  sat  with 
one  booted  ankle  resting  on  a  knee,  idly  spin- 
ning the  rowel  of  her  spur  as  she  talked.  Oliver 
listened  without  interruption  until  she  finished 
and  once  more  levelled  that  straightforward 
glance  at  him. 

"The  cows  have  been  down  below  on  winter 
•pasture,"  she  added.  "Adam  Selden  and  the 
boys  rode  out  yesterday  to  start  the  spring  drive 
into  the  foothills.  You'll  awake  some  morning 
soon  to  find  red  cattle  all  about  you,  and  they'll 
be  here  till  August." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  don't  know  that  I  shall 
mind  them.  My  fence  is  pretty  fair,  and  with 
a  little  more  repairing  will  turn  them,  I  think." 

She  twirled  her  rowel  in  silence  for  a  time,  her 
eyes  fixed  on  it.  Then  she  said: 

"It  isn't  that,  Mr.  Drew.     I  may  as  well  tell 

45 


46         THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

you  right  now  what  I  came  down  here  purposely 
to  tell  you.  You're  not  wanted  here.  All  of 
this  land  has  been  abandoned  so  long  that  Adam 
Selden  and  the  gang  have  come  to  consider  it 
their  property — or  at  least  free  range." 

"But  they'll  respect  my  right  of  ownership." 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  know.  I'm  afraid 
they  won't.  They're  a  law  unto  themselves 
down  in  here.  They'll  try  to  run  you  out." 

"How?" 

"Any  way — every  way.  If  nothing  else  oc- 
curs to  them,  they'll  begin  a  studied  system  of 
persecution  with  the  idea  of  making  you  so  sick 
of  your  bargain  that  you'll  pull  stakes  and  hit 
the  trail.  That  poor  man  Dodd!  Mr.  Tamroy 
told  me  you  happened  into  the  saloon  in  time 
to  see  the  shooting.  Wasn't  it  terrible!  And 
how  they  persecuted  him — fairly  drove  him  into 
the  rash  act  that  cost  him  his  life!" 

She  lifted  her  glance  again.  "Mr.  Tamroy 
tells  me  that  you  were  shocked  at  me  that  day." 

"I  guess  I  didn't  fully  understand  the  circum- 
stances." 

"I  did,"  she  firmly  declared,  her  lips  setting 
in  what  would  have  been  a  grim  smile  but  for 
the  dimples  that  came  with  it.  "I  understood 
the  situation,"  she  went  on.  "Digger  Foss  had 
been  waiting  for  just  that  chance.  There's  just 
enough  Indian  and  Chinese  blood  in  him  to 


"AND  I'LL  HELP  YOU!"  47 

make  him  a  fatalist.  He's  therefore  deadly. 
Has  no  fear  of  death.  He's  cruel,  merciless.  I 
knew  when  I  saw  Henry  Dodd  covering  him 
with  that  gun  that,  if  he  didn't  finish  what  he'd 
started,  he  was  a  dead  man.  He  ccmldn't  even 
have  backed  off  gracefully,  keeping  Digger  cov- 
ered, and  got  away  alive.  Digger  is  so  quick 
on  the  draw,  and  his  aim  is  so  deadly.  He's  a 
master  gunman.  Even  had  Dotld  succeeded  in 
getting  away  then,  he  would  have  been  a  marked 
man.  He  had  thrown  down  on  Digger  Foss. 
Digger  would  have  got  the  drop  on  him  next 
time  they  met  and  killed  him  as  you  would  a 
coyote.  So  in  my  excitement  I  rushed  in  with 
my  well  meant  warning,  and — Oh,  it  was  horri- 
ble!" 

"And  you  meant  actually  for  Dodd  to  kill 
Foss?" 

Her  black  eyes  dilated,  and  an  angry  flush 
blended  with  the  tan  on  her  cheeks. 

"It  was  one  or  the  other  of  them,"  she  told 
him  coldly.  "Mr.  Dodd  was  an  honest,  plod- 
ding man — a  good  citizen.  Foss  is  a  renegade. 
Was  I  so  very  bloodthirsty  in  trying  to  make 
the  best  of  a  bad  situation  by  choosing,  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment,  which  man  ought  to  live 
on?  I'm  not  the  fainting  kind  of  woman,  Mr. 
Drew.  One  must  be  practical,  if  he  can,  even 
over  matters  like  that." 


48         THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"I'm  not  condemning,"  he  said.  "I'm  only 
wondering  that  a  woman  could  be  so  practical 
in  such  a  situation." 

"Digger  Foss  hasn't  seen  me  since  then,"  she 
observed.  "He's  in  jail,  awaiting  trial,  at  the 
county  seat.  He'll  be  acquitted,  of  course.  I'm 
wondering  what  he'll  have  to  say  to  me  when  he 
is  free  again." 

Oliver  said  nothing  to  this. 

"I  must  be  going,"  she  declared,  rising  sud- 
denly. "As  I  said,  I  came  down  to  warn  you  to 
be  on  your  guard  against  the  Poison  Oakers." 

He  caught  her  pony  and  led  it  to  her.  She 
swung  into  the  saddle,  then  slued  toward  him, 
leaned  an  elbow  on  the  horn  and  rested  her  chin 
in  the  palm  of  her  hand.  Once  more  that  direct 
gaze  of  her  frank  black  eyes  looked  him  through 
and  through. 

"Well,"  she  asked,  "will  the  Poison  Oakers 
run  you  off?" 

"Oh,  I  think  not,"  he  laughed  lightly. 

"They'll  be  ten  against  one,  Mr.  Drew." 

"There's  law  in  the  land." 

"Yes,  there's  law,"  she  mused.  "But  it's  so 
easy  for  unscrupulous  people  to  get  around  the 
law.  They  can  subject  you  to  no  end  of  perse- 
cution, and  you  won't  even  be  able  to  prove  that 
one  of  them  is  behind  it." 

She  looked  him  over  deliberately. 


"AND  I'LL  HELP  YOU!"  49 

"I'm  glad  you've  come,"  she  said.  "You're  an 
educated  man,  and  blessed  with  a  higher  order 
of  character  than  has  been  anybody  else  who 
stood  to  cross  the  Poison  Oakers.  Somehow,  I 
feel  that  you  are  destined  to  be  their  undoing. 
They  must  be  corralled  and  their  atrocities 
brought  to  an  end.  You  must  be  the  one  to  put 
the  quietus  on  that  gang.  And  I'll  help  you. 
Good-bye !" 

She  lifted  the  white  mare  into  a  lope,  opened 
the  gate,  rode  through  and  closed  it  without 
leaving  the  saddle,  then,  waving  back  at  him, 
disappeared  in  the  chaparral. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ACCORDING  TO  THE  RECORDS 

OLIVER  DREW  had  found  a  bee  tree  on 
the  backbone  of  the  ridge  between  the 
Old  Ivison  Place  and  the  American 
River.  He  stood  contemplating  it,  watching 
the  busy  little  workers  winging  their  way  to  and 
from  the  hole  in  the  hollow  trunk,  planning  to 
change  their  quarters  and  put  them  to  work  for 
him. 

Far  below  him,  down  a  precipitous  pine-stud- 
ded slope,  the  green  American  River  raced  to- 
ward the  ocean.  There  had  been  a  week  of  late 
rains,  and  good  grass  for  the  summer  was  as- 
sured. 

Away  through  the  tall  trees  below  him  he  saw 
red  cows  filtering  along,  cropping  eagerly  at  the 
lush  growth  after  a  long  dusty  trip  from  the 
drying  lowlands.  Now  and  then  he  saw  a  horse- 
man galloping  along  a  mile  distant.  He  heard 
an  occasional  faint  shout,  borne  upward  on  the 
soft  spring  wind.  The  Seldens  were  ending  the 
drive  of  their  cattle  to  summer  pastures. 

He  turned  suddenly  as  he  heard  the  tramp  of 

50 


ACCORDING  TO  THE  RECORDS   51 

hoofs.  Six  horsemen  were  approaching,  along 
the  backbone  of  the  ridge,  winding  in  and  out 
between  clumps  of  the  sparse  chaparral. 

In  the  lead,  straight  and  sturdy  as  some  an- 
cient oak,  rode  a  tall  man  with  grey  hair  that 
hung  below  his  ears  and  a  flowing  grey  beard. 
He  wore  the  conventional  cowpuncher  garb, 
from  black-silk  neckerchief,  held  in  place  by  a 
poker  chip  with  holes  bored  in  it,  to  high- 
heeled  boots  and  chaps.  He  rode  a  gaunt  grey 
horse.  His  tapaderos  flapped  loosely  against  the 
undergrowth,  and,  so  long  were  the  man's  legs, 
they  seemed  almost  to  scrape  the  ground.  A 
bolstered  Colt  hung  at  the  rider's  side. 

Silent,  stern  of  face,  this  old  man  rode  like 
the  wraith  of  some  ancient  chieftain  at  the  head 
of  his  hard-riding  warriors. 

Those  who  followed  him  were  younger  men, 
plainly  vaqueros.  They  lolled  in  their  saddles, 
and  smoked  and  bantered.  But  Oliver's  eyes 
were  alone  for  the  stalwart  figure  in  the  lead, 
who  neither  spoke  nor  smiled  nor  paid  any  at- 
tention to  his  band,  but  rode  on  grimly  as  if 
heading  an  expedition  into  dangerous  and  un- 
known lands. 

Undoubtedly  this  was  Old  Man  Selden  and  his 
four  sons,  together  with  other  members  of  the 
Poison  Oakers  Gang.  They  had  left  the  cows  to 
themselves  and  were  making  their  way  home- 


52 

ward  after  the  drive.  Oliver's  first  impulse  was 
to  hide  behind  a  tree  and  watch,  for  he  felt  that 
he  should  forego  no  chance  of  a  strategic  ad- 
vantage. Then  he  decided  that  it  was  not  for 
him  to  begin  manoeuvring,  and  stood  boldly  in 
full  view,  wondering  whether  the  riders  would 
pass  without  observing  him. 

They  did  not.  He  heard  a  sharp  word  or 
two  from  some  follower  of  the  old  man,  and  for 
the  first  time  the  leader  showed  signs  of  know- 
ing that  he  was  not  riding  alone.  He  slued 
about  in  his  saddle.  A  hand  pointed  in  Oliver's 
direction.  The  old  man  reined  in  his  grey  horse 
and  looked  toward  Oliver  and  the  bee  tree.  The 
other  horsemen  drew  up  around  him.  There 
was  a  short  consultation,  then  all  of  them  leaned 
to  the  right  in  their  saddles  and  galloped  over 
the  uneven  land. 

They  reined  in  close  to  the  lone  man,  and  a 
dusty,  sweaty,  hard-looking  clan  they  were. 
Keen,  curious  eyes  studied  him,  and  there  was 
no  mistaking  the  insolent  and  bullying  attitude 
of  their  owners. 

A  quick  glance  Oliver  gave  the  five,  then  his 
interest  settled  on  their  leader. 

Adam  Selden  was  a  powerful  man.  His 
nose  was  of  the  Bourbon  type,  large  and  deeply 
pitted.  His  eyes  were  blue  and  strong  and  dom- 
inating. 


ACCORDING  TO  THE  RECORDS        53 

"Howdy?"  boomed  a  deep^bass  voice. 

Oliver  smiled.     "How  do  you  do?"  he  replied. 

Then  silence  fell,  while  old  Adam  Selden  sat 
rolling  a  quid  of  tobacco  in  his  mouth  and  study- 
ing the  stranger  with  inscrutable  cold  blue 
eyes. 

"I've  found  a  bee  tree,"  said  Oliver  when 
the  tensity  grew  almost  unbearable.  "I  was 
just  figuring  on  the  best  way  to  hive  the  little 
rascals." 

Selden  slowly  nodded  his  great  head  up  and 
down  with  exasperating  exaggeration. 

"Stranger  about  here,  ain't  ye?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  I've  been  here  over  a  month,"  Oliver 
answered.  "I  own  the  Old  Tabor  Ivison  Place, 
down  there  in  the  valley.  My  name  is  Oliver 
Drew,  and  I  guess  you're  Mr.  Selden." 

Another  long  pause,  then — 

"Yes,  I'm  Selden.  Them's  my  cows  ye  see 
down  there  moseyin'  up  the  river  bottom  and 
over  the  hills.  I  been  runnin'  cows  in  here  sum- 
mers for  a  good  many  years.  Just  so!" 

"I  see,"  said  Oliver,  not  knowing  what  else  to 
say. 

"Three  o'  these  men  are  my  boys,"  Selden 
drawled  on.  "The  rest  are  friends  o'  ours. 
Has  anybody  told  ye  about  the  poison  oak  that 
grows  'round  here?" 

"I'm  familiar  with  it,"  Oliver  told  him. 


54        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Ain't  scared  o'  poison  oak,  then?" 

"Not  at  all.     I'm  immune." 

"It's  a  pesterin'  plant.  You'll  chafe  under  it 
and  chafe  under  it,  and  think  it's  gone;  then 
here  she  comes  back  again,  redder  and  lumpier 
and  itchier  than  ever." 

"I'm  quite  familiar  with  its  persistence," 
Oliver  gravely  stated. 

"And  still  ye  ain't  afraid  o'  poison  oak?" 

"Not  in  the  least." 

The  gang  was  grinning,  but  the  chief  of  the 
Poison  Oakers  maintained  a  straight  face. 

"Ain't  scared  of  it,  then,''  he  drawled  on. 
"Well,  now,  that's  handy.  I  like  to  meet  a  man 
that  ain't  scared  o'  poison  oak.  Got  yer  place 
fenced,  I  reckon?" 

"Yes,  I've  repaired  the  fence." 

"That's  right.  That's  always  the  best  way. 
O'  course  the  law  says  we  got  to  see  that  our 
stock  don't  get  on  your  prop'ty.  Whether  that 
there's  a  good  and  just  law  or  not  I  ain't  pre- 
pared to  say  right  now.  But  we  got  to  obey  it, 
and  we  always  try  to  keep  our  cows  offen  other 
folks'  pasture.  But  it's  best  to  fence,  whether 
ye  got  stock  o'  yer  own  or  not.  Pays  in  the 
long  run,  and  keeps  a  fella  outa  trouble  with 
his  neighbours.  But  the  best  o'  fencin'  won't 
keep  out  the  poison  oak.  O'  course,  though,  you 
know  that.  Now  what're  ye  gonta  do  down 


there  on  the  Old  Ivison  Place? — if  I  ain't  too 
bold  in  askin.' ' 

"Have  a  little  garden,  and  maybe  get  a  cow 
later  on.  Put  a  few  stands  of  bees  to  work  for 
me,  if  I  can  find  enough  swarms  in  the  woods. 
I  have  a  saddle  horse  and  a  burro  to  keep  the 
grass  down  now.  I  don't  intend  to  do  a  great 
deal  in  the  way  of  farming." 

"I'd  think  not,"  Selden  drawled.  "Land 
about  here's  good  fer  nothin'  but  grazin'  a  few 
months  outa  the  year.  Man  would  be  a  fool 
to  try  and  farm  down  where  you're  at.  How  ye 
gonta  make  a  livin'? — if  I'm  not  too  bold  in 
askin'." 

"I  intend  to  write  for  agricultural  papers  for 
my  living,"  said  Oliver. 

Silence  greeted  this.  So  far  as  their  experi- 
ence was  concerned,  Oliver  might  as  well  have 
stated  that  he  was  contemplating  the  manufac- 
ture of  tortoise-shell  side  combs  to  keep  soul 
and  body  to  their  accustomed  partnership. 

"How  long  ye  owned  this  forty?"  Old  Man 
Selden  asked. 

"Only  since  my  father's  death,  this  year." 

"Yer  father,  eh?    Who  was  yer  father?" 

"Peter  Drew,  of  the  southern  part  of  the 
state." 

"How  long'd  he  own  that  prop'ty  before  he 
died?" 


56        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"He  owned  it  for  some  time,  I  understand," 
said  Oliver  patiently. 

The  grey  head  shook  slowly  from  side  to  side. 
"I  can  show  ye,  down  to  the  county  seat,  that 
Nancy  Fleet — who  was  an  Ivison  and  sister  o' 
the  woman  I  married  here  about  four  year  ago 
— owned  that  land  up  until  the  first  o'  the  year, 
anyway.  It  was  left  to  her  by  old  Tabor  Ivison 
when  he  died.  That  was  fifteen  year  ago,  and 
I've  paid  the  taxes  on  it  ever  since  for  Nancy 
Fleet,  for  the  privilege  o'  runnin'  stock  on  it. 
I  paid  the  taxes  last  year.  What  ?a'  ye  got  to 
say  to  that?" 

Oliver  Drew  had  absolutely  nothing  to  say  to 
it.  He  could  only  stare  at  the  gaunt  old  man. 

"But  I  have  the  deed!"  he  burst  out  at  last. 

"And  I've  got  last  year's  tax  receipts," 
drawled  Adam  Selden.  "Ye  better  go  down  to 
the  county  seat  and  have  a  look  at  the  records," 
he  added,  swinging  his  horse  about.  "Then 
when  ye've  done  that,  I'd  like  a  talk  with  ye. 
Just  so!  Just  so!" 

He  rode  off  without  another  word,  the  gang 
following. 

Early  next  morning  Oliver  was  in  the  saddle. 
As  Poche  picked  his  way  out  of  the  canon  Oliver 
espied  Jessamy  Selden  on  her  white  mare,  stand- 
ing still  in  the  county  road. 


ACCORDING  TO  THE  RECORDS        57 

"Good  morning,"  said  the  girl.  "You're  late. 
I've  been  waiting  for  you  ten  minutes." 

Oliver's  lips  parted  in  surprise,  and  she 
laughed  good-naturedly. 

"I  thought  you'd  be  riding  out  early  this  morn- 
ing," she  explained,  "so  I  rode  down  to  meet 
you.  I  feel  as  if  a  long  ride  in  the  saddle  would 
benefit  me  today.  Do  you  mind  if  I  travel  with 
you  to  the  county  seat?" 

He  had  ridden  close  to  her  by  this  time,  and 
offered  his  hand. 

"You  like  to  surprise  people,  don't  you?"  he 
accused.  "The  answer  to  your  question  is,  I  do 
not  mind  if  you  travel  with  me  to  the  county 
seat.  But  let  me  tell  you — you'll  have  to  travel. 
This  is  a  horse  that  I'm  riding." 

She  turned  up  her  nose  at  him.  "I  like  to 
have  a  man  talk  that  way  to  me,"  she  said. 
"Don't  ever  dare  to  hold  my  stirrup  for  me,  or 
slow  down  when  you  think  the  pace  is  getting 
pretty  brisk,  or  anything  like  that." 

"I  wouldn't  think  of  such  discourtesy,"  he 
told  her  seriously.  "You  noticed  that  I  let  you 
mount  unaided  the  other  day.  I  might  have 
walked  ahead,  though,  and  opened  the  gate  for 
you  if  you  hadn't  loped  off." 

"That's  why  I  did  it,"  she  demurely  confessed. 
"I'm  rather  proud  of  being  able  to  take  care  of 


58        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

myself.  And  as  for  that  wonderful  horse  of 
yours,  he  does  look  leggy  and  capable.  But, 
then,  White  Ann  has  a  point  or  two  herself. 
Let's  go !" 

Their  ponies  took  up  the  walking-trot  of  the 
cattle  country  side  by  side  toward  Halfmoon 
Flat. 

"Well,"  Oliver  began,  "of  course  my  meeting 
you  means  that  you  know  I've  had  an  encounter 
with  Adam  Selden,  and  that  he  has  told  you  he 
doubts  if  I  am  the  rightful  owner  of  the  Tabor 
Ivison  Place." 

"Yes,  I  overheard  his  conversation  with  Hur- 
lock  last  night,"  she  told  him.  "So  I  thought 
I'd  ride  down  with  you,  sensing  that  you 
would  be  worried  and  would  hit  the  trail  this 
morning." 

"I  am  worried,"  he  said.  "I  can't  imagine 
why  your  stepfather  made  that  statement." 

"Just  call  him  Adam  or  Old  Man  Selden  when 
you're  speaking  of  him  to  me,"  she  prompted. 
"Even  the  'step'  in  front  of  'father'  does  not 
take  away  the  bad  taste.  And  you  might  at 
least  think  of  me  as  Jessamy  Lomax.  I  will  lie 
in  the  bed  I  made  when  I  espoused  the  name  of 
Selden,  for  it  would  be  stupid  to  go  about  now 
notifying  people  that  I  have  gone  back  to  Lomax 
again.  My  case  is  not  altogether  hopeless,  how- 
ever. You  are  witness  that  I  have  a  fair  chance 


ACCORDING  TO  THE  RECORDS        59 

of  some  day  acquiring  the  name  of  Foss,  at 
any  rate.  So  you  are  worried  about  the  land 
tangle?" 

"What  can  it  mean?"  he  puzzled. 

"This  probably  is  not  the  first  instance  in 
which  a  deed  has  not  been  recorded  promptly," 
she  ventured.  "That  won't  affect  your  owner- 
ship. Personally  I  know  that  Aunt  Nancy 
Fleet's  name  appears  in  the  records  down  at  the 
county  seat  as  the  owner  of  the  property.  She 
sold  it  to  your  father,  doubtless,  and  the  trans- 
fer never  was  recorded.  Where  is  your  deed?" 

He  slapped  his  breast. 

"See  that  you  keep  it  there,"  she  said  signif- 
icantly. 

"You  say  you  know  that  your  Aunt  Nancy 
Fleet  is  named  as  owner  of  the  property  in  the 
county  records?" 

She  nodded. 

"Then  she  has  allowed  Adam  Selden  to  be- 
lieve that  she  still  owns  it!"  he  cried.  "And 
this  is  proved  by  reason  of  her  having  allowed 
him  to  pay  the  taxes  for  the  right  to  run  stock 
on  the  land." 

She  nodded  again. 

He  wrinkled  his  brows.  "It  would  seem  to  be 
a  sort  of  conspiracy  against  Adam  Selden  by 
your  Aunt  Nancy  and — "  He  paused. 

"And  who?" 


60        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Well,  it's  not  like  my  father's  business  meth- 
ods to  allow  a  deed  to  go  unrecorded  for  fif- 
teen years/'  he  told  her.  "Not  at  all  like  Dad. 
So  I  must  name  him  as  a  party  to  this  conspir- 
acy against  old  Adam.  But  what  is  the  mean- 
ing of  it,  Miss  Selden?1' 

"I'm  sure  I  am  not  in  a  position  to  say,"  she 
replied  lightly.  "Some  day,  when  you've  got 
things  to  running  smoothly  down  there,  I'll  take 
you  to  see  Aunt  Nancy.  She  lives  up  in  Calam- 
ity Gap — about  ten  miles  to  the  north  of  Half- 
moon  Flat.  Maybe  she  can  and  will  explain." 

He  regarded  her  steadily;  but  for  once  her 
eyes  did  not  meet  his,  though  he  could  not  say 
that  this  was  intentional  on  her  part. 

"By  George,  I  believe  you  can  explain  it !"  he 
accused. 

"I?" 

"You  heard  me  the  first  time." 

"Did  you  learn  that  expression  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  California  or  in  France?" 

"I  stick  to  my  statement,"  he  grumbled. 

"Do  so,  by  all  means.  Just  the  same,  I  am 
not  in  a  position  to  enlighten  you.  But  I  prom- 
ise to  take  you  to  Aunt  Nancy  whenever  you're 
ready  to  go.  There's  an  Indian  reservation  up 
near  where  she  lives.  You'll  want  to  visit  that. 
We  can  make  quite  a  vacation  of  the  trip. 
You'll  see  a  riding  outfit  or  two  that  will  run 


ACCORDING  TO  THE  RECORDS   61 

close  seconds  to  yours  for  decoration  and  elabo- 
rate workmanship.  My!  What  a  saddle  and 
bridle  you  have!  I've  been  unable  to  keep  my 
eyes  off  them  from  the  first;  but  you  were  so 
busy  with  your  land  puzzle  that  I  couldn't  men- 
tion them.  I've  seen  some  pretty  elaborate 
rigs  in  my  day,  but  nothing  to  compare  with 
yours.  It's  old,  too.  Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"They  were  Dad's,"  he  told  her.  "He  left 
them  and  Poche  to  me  at  his  death.  I  must 
tell  you  of  something  that  happened  when  I  first 
showed  up  in  Halfmoon  Flat  in  all  my  grandeur. 
Do  you  know  Old  Dad  Sloan,  the  'Forty-niner?" 

She  nodded,  her  glance  still  on  the  heavy, 
chased  silver  of  his  saddle. 

Then  Oliver  told  her  of  the  queer  old  man's 
mysterious  words  when  he  saw  the  saddle  and 
bridle  and  martingales,  and  the  stones  that  were 
set  in  the  silver  conchas. 

She  was  strangely  silent  when  he  had  finished. 
Then  she  said  musingly: 

"The  lost  mine  of  Bolivio.  Certainly  that 
sounds  interesting.  And  Dan  Smeed,  squaw- 
man,  highwayman,  and  outlaw.  The  days  of 
old,  the  days  of  gold — the  days  of  'Forty-nine! 
Thought  of  them  always  thrills  me.  Tell  me 
more,  Mr.  Drew.  I  know  there  is  much  more  to 
be  told." 

"I'll  do  it,"  he  said ;  and  out  came  the  strange 


62        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

story  of  Peter  Drew  and  his  last  message  to  his 
son. 

Her  wide  eyes  gazed  at  him  throughout  the 
recital  and  while  he  read  the  message  aloud. 
They  were  sparkling  as  he  concluded  and  looked 
across  at  her. 

"Oh,  that  dear,  delightful,  romantic  old  father 
of  yours !"  she  cried.  "You're  a  man  of  mystery 
— a  knight  on  a  secret  quest!  "Oh,  if  I  could 
only  help  you!  Will  you  let  me  try?" 

"I'd  be  only  too  glad  to  shift  half  the  burden 
of  finding  the  question  and  its  correct  answer 
to  your  strong  shoulders,"  he  said. 

"Then  we'll  begin  just  as  soon  as  you're 
ready,"  she  declared.  "I  have  a  plan  for  the 
first  step.  Wait!  I'll  help  you!" 

Shortly  before  noon  they  dropped  rein  before 
the  court  house  and  sought  the  county  record- 
er's office.  Oliver  gave  the  legal  description  of 
his  land,  and  soon  the  two  were  pouring  over  a 
cumbersome  book,  heads  close  together. 

To  his  vast  surprise,  Oliver  found  that  his 
deed  had  been  recorded  the  second  day  after  his 
father's  death,  and  that,  up  until  that  recent 
date,  the  land  had  appeared  in  the  records  as 
the  property  of  Nancy  Fleet. 

"Dad's  lawyers  did  this  directly  after  his 
death,"  he  said  to  Jessamy.  "They  sent  the 
deed  up  here  and  had  it  recorded  just  before 


ACCORDING  TO  THE  RECORDS   63 

turning  it  over  to  me.  Adam  Selden  hasn't 
seen  it  yet.  Say,  this  is  growing  mighty  mys- 
terious, Miss  Selden." 

"Delightfully  so,"  she  agreed.  "Now  as  you 
weren't  expecting  me  to  come  along,  have  you 
enough  money  for  lunch  for  two?  If  not,  I 
have.  We'd  better  eat  and  be  starting  back." 


CHAPTER  VII 

LILAC  SPODUMENE 

ONCE  more  Oliver  Drew  rode  out  of 
Clinker  Creek  Canon  to  find  Jessamy 
Selden,  straight  and  strong  and  depend- 
able looking,  waiting  for  him  in  her  saddle. 
On  this  occasion  he  joined  her  by  appointment. 

She  looked  especially  fresh  and  contrasty  to- 
day. Her  black  hair  and  eyes  and  her  red  lips 
and  olive  skin,  with  the  red  of  perfect  health  so 
subtly  blended  into  the  tan,  always  made  her 
beauty  rather  startling.  This  morning  she  had 
plaited  her  hair  in  two  long,  heavy  braids  that 
hung  to  the  bottom  of  her  saddle  skirts  on  either 
side. 

Oliver's  gaze  at  her  was  one  of  frank  admira- 
tion. 

"How  do  you  do  it?"  he  laughed. 

"Do  what?" 

"Make  yourself  so  spectacular  and — er — out- 
standing, without  leaving  any  traces  of  art?" 

"Am  I  spectacular?" 

"Rather.  Different,  anyway — to  use  a  badly 
overworked  expression.  But  what  puzzles  me 

64 


LILAC  SPODUMENE  65 

is  what  makes  you  look  like  that.  You  seem 
perfectly  normal,  and  nothing  could  be  plainer 
than  the  clothes  you  wear.  You're  not  beauti- 
ful, and  you're  too  big  both  physically  and  men- 
tally to  be  pretty.  But  I'll  bet  my  hat  you're 
the  most  popular  young  woman  in  this  section !" 

She  regarded  him  soberly.  "Are  you  through  ?" 
she  asked. 

"I've  exhausted  my  stock  of  descriptive 
words,  anyway,"  he  told  her. 

"Then  we'd  better  be  riding,"  she  said. 

He  swung  Poche  to  the  side  of  White  Ann, 
and  they  moved  off  along  the  road,  knee  and 
knee. 

"You're  not  offended?"  he  asked. 

She  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed  till 
Oliver  thought  of  meadow  larks,  and  robins  call- 
ing before  a  shower. 

"Offended!  You  must  think  me  some  sort  of 
freak.  Who  ever  heard  of  a  woman  being  of- 
fended when  a  man  admires  her?  I  like  it  im- 
mensely, Mr.  Oliver  Drew.  And  if  you  can  beat 
that  for  square  shooting,  there's  no  truth  in  me. 
But  if  you'll  analyse  my  'difference'  you'll  find 
it's  only  because  I'm  big  and  strong  and  healthy, 
and  try  always  to  shoot  straight  from  the 
shoulder  and  look  folks  straight  in  the  eye. 
That's  all.  Let's  let  'em  out!" 

They  broke  into  a  smart  gallop,  and  continued 


66        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

it  up  and  down  pine-toothed  hills  till  they  clat- 
tered into  Halfmoon  Flat. 

Curious  eyes  met  them,  old  men  stopped  in 
their  tracks  and  leaned  on  their  canes  to  watch, 
and  folks  came  to  windows  and  doors  as  they 
loped  through  the  village. 

"  'Whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth,' ' 
Jessamy  quoted  as  they  turned  a  corner  and  can- 
tered up  a  hill  toward  a  grove  of  pines  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  town.  "It  seems  odd  that 
Adam  Selden  has  not  mentioned  you  to  me. 
Surely  some  one  has  seen  us  together  who  would 
tell  some  one  else  who  would  tell  Old  Man  Sel- 
den all  about  it.  But  not  a  cheep  from  him  as 
yet." 

"Have  you  any  bosom  friends  in  the  Clinker 
Creek  district?"  he  asked,  not  altogether  irrele- 
vantly. 

"No,  none  at  all.  But  I'm  friends  with 
everybody,  though  I  have  nothing  in  common 
with  any  one.  I  don't  consider  myself  superior 
to  the  natives  here  about,  but,  just  the  same, 
they  don't  interest  me.  I'm  speaking  of  the 
women.  I  like  most  of  the  men.  I  guess  I'm 
what  they  call  a  man's  woman.  I  can't  sit  and 
talk  about  clothes  and  dances,  and  gossip,  and 
what  one  did  on  one's  vacation  last  summer.  It 
all  bores  me  stiff,  so  I  don't  pretend  it  doesn't. 
Men,  now — they  can  talk  about  horses  and  sad- 


LILAC  SPODUMENE  67 

dies  and  cows  and  cutting  wood  and  prizefights 
and  poker  games  and  election — " 

"And  women  and  Fords,"  he  interrupted. 

She  laughed  and  led  the  way  into  a  little  trail 
that  snaked  on  up  the  hill  between  lilacs  and 
buckeye  trees  to  a  little  cabin  half-hidden  in  the 
foliage. 

They  dismounted  at  the  door  and  loosed  their 
horses.  Jessamy  tapped  vigorously  on  the 
panels.  Again  and  again — and  then  there  was 
heard  a  shuffling,  unsteady  step  inside,  and  a 
cane  thumped  hollowly.  Presently  the  door 
opened,  and  Old  Dad  Sloan  bleared  out  at  them 
from  behind  his  flaring,  mattress-stuffing  hair 
and  whiskers. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Sloan!"  cried  Jessamy 
almost  at  the  top  of  her  voice. 

A  veined  hand  shook  its  way  to  form  a  cup  be- 
hind the  ancient's  ear. 

"Hey?"  he  squealed. 

Jessamy  filled  her  sturdy  lungs  with  air  and 
tried  again. 

"I  say — How  do  you  do !"  The  effort  left  her 
neck  red  but  for  a  blue  outstanding  artery. 

"Oh !"  exclaimed  Dad  Sloan,  with  a  look  of  re- 
lief. "Why,  howdy?" 

Jessamy  ascended  a  step  to  the  door,  took  him 
by  both  shoulders,  and  placed  her  satin  lips 
close  to  the  ear  that  he  inclined  her  way. 


68 

"We've  come  to  make  you  a  call/'  she  an- 
nounced. "I  want  you  to-meet  a  friend  of  mine ; 
and  we  want  to  ask  you  some  questions." 

The  grey  head  nodded  slowly  up  and  down, 
more  to  indicate  that  its  owner  heard  and  under- 
stood than  to  signify  acquiescence.  But  he  tot- 
tered back  and  held  the  door  wide  open;  and 
Jessamy  and  Oliver  went  into  the  cabin. 

Dad  Sloan  managed  to  live  all  alone  in  this 
sequestered  little  nook  by  reason  of  the  coun- 
ty's generosity.  He  was  old  and  feeble,  and  at 
times  irritatingly  childish  and  petulant.  Jes- 
samy Selden  often  brought  him  cakes,  fried 
chicken,  and  the  like;  and,  provided  he  was  in 
the  right  mood,  he  would  be  more  likely  to  be 
confidential  with  her  than  with  anybody  else  in 
the  country. 

But  the  girl's  task  was  difficult.  The  old  man 
shook  hands  listlessly  with  Oliver  at  her  bid- 
ding, but  seemed  entirely  to  have  forgotten  their 
previous  meeting.  They  sat  in  the  uncomfort- 
able straight-backed,  thong-bottom  chairs  while 
Jessamy  shrieked  the  conversation  into  the  de- 
sired channel.  The  old  eyes  gathered  a  more 
intelligent  look  as  she  spoke  of  the  lost  mine  of 
Bolivio. 

Pieced  together,  the  fragments  that  fell  from 
the  bearded  lips  of  Old  Dad  Sloan  made  some 
such  narrative  as  follows: 


LILAC  SPODUMENE  09 

Bolivio  had  been  a  Portugese  or  a  Spaniard, 
or  some  "black  furriner,"  who  had  been  in  the 
country  in  the  memorable  days  of  '49  and  after- 
ward. His  knowledge  of  some  tongue  based  on 
the  Latin  had  made  it  easy  for  him  to  communi- 
cate with  the  Pauba  Indians  that  inhabited  the 
country,  as  some  of  them  had  learned  Spanish 
from  the  Franciscan  Fathers  down  at  the  coast. 
Bolivio  mingled  with  the  tribe,  and  finally  be- 
came a  squawman. 

One  day  he  appeared  at  the  Clinker  Creek  bar 
and  exhibited  a  beautiful  stone.  A  gold  miner 
who  was  present  had  once  followed  mining  in 
South  Africa,  and  knew  something  of  diamonds. 
He  examined  Bolivio's  stone,  and  gave  it  such 
simple  tests  as  were  at  his  command,  then  ad- 
vised the  owner  to  send  it  to  New  York  to  find 
out  if  it  was  possessed  of  value. 

It  required  months  in  those  days  to  communi- 
cate with  the  Atlantic  seaboard.  Bolivio's  stone 
was  started  on  its  long  journey  around  the 
Horn.  He  hinted  that  there  were  more  of  the 
stones  where  he  had  found  this  one,  and  created 
the  impression  that  his  Indian  brethren  had 
showed  them  to  him. 

More  they  could  not  get  out  of  him.  Nor  did 
anybody  try  very  hard  to  learn  his  secret,  for  no 
one  imagined  the  find  of  much  intrinsic  value. 

Bolivio  was  a  saddler,  and  was  skilled  in  the 


70        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

art  of  the  silversmith.  Gold  dust  was  plentiful 
in  the  country  in  that  day,  and  the  foreigner 
found  ready  buyers  for  his  masterpieces  in 
leather  and  precious  metals.  The  finest  eques- 
trian outfit  that  he  made  was  finally  acquired 
from  the  Indians  by  Dan  Smeed,  a  miner  who 
afterward  turned,  highwayman,  married  an  In- 
dian girl,  became  an  outlaw,  and  finally  disap- 
peared altogether.  In  the  conchas  with  which 
the  plaited  bridle  was  adorned  Bolivio  had  set 
two  large  stones  from  his  secret  store,  which  he 
himself  had  crudely  polished. 

One  day,  a  month  QT  more  before  word  came 
from  New  York  regarding  the  stone,  Bolivio  was 
found  dead  in  the  forest.  A  knife  had  been 
plunged  into  his  heart.  The  secret  of  the  bril- 
liant stones  had  died  with  him. 

Then  came  the  answer.  The  stone  was  said 
to  be  spodumene,  of  a  very  high  class,  and  had  a 
a  lilac  tint  theretofore  unknown.  It  was  the 
finest  of  its  kind  ever  to  have  been  reported  as 
found  in  the  United  States.  The  finder  was  of- 
fered a  thousand  dollars  for  the  sample  sent; 
one  hundred  dollars  a  pound  was  offered  for 
all  stones  that  would  grade  up  to  the  sample. 

But  Bolivio  was  dead,  and  no  one  knew  from 
whence  the  stone  had  come. 

Efforts  were  made,  of  course,  to  find  the  source 
of  this  wealth.  The  Indians  were  tried  time  and 


LILAC  SPODUMENE  71 

again,  but  not  one  word  would  they  speak  regard- 
ing the  matter.  The  new  quest  was  finally 
dropped;  for  those  were  the  days  of  gold,  gold, 
gold,  and  so  frenzied  were  men  and  women  to  find 
it  that  other  precious  minerals  were  cast  aside  as 
worthless.  None  had  time  to  seek  for  stones 
worth  a  hundred  dollars  a  pound,  with  gold 
worth  more  than  twice  'as  much.  So  the  lost 
mine  of  Bolivio  became  only  a  memory. 

Years  later  this  same  stone  was  discovered  six 
hundred  miles  farther  south.  It  is  now  on  the 
market  as  kunzite,  and  a  cut  stone  of  one  karat 
in  weight  sells  for  fifty  dollars  and  more.  The 
San  Diego  County  discovery  was  supposed  to 
mark  the  introduction  of  the  stone  in  the  United 
States,  for  the  lost  mine  of  Bolivio  was  all  but 
forgotten. 

Old  Dad  Sloan  thumped  out  at  Jessamy's  re- 
quest and  once  again  critically  examined  Oliver's 
saddle  and  bridle  and  the  brilliants  in  the 
conchas. 

"It's  the  same  fine  outfit  Bolivio  made,  and 
that  afterwards  belonged  to  Dan  Smeed,  outlaw, 
highwayman,  and  squawman,"  he  pronounced. 
"They  never  was  another  outfit  like  it  in  this 
country." 

"Tell  us  more  about  Dan  Smeed!"  screamed 
the  girl. 

The   patriarch   shook   his   head.    "Bad  egg; 


72        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

bad  egg!"  he  said  sonorously.  "He  married  a 
squaw,  and  that's  how  come  it  he  got  the  grand- 
est saddle  and  bridle  Bolivio  ever  made. 
Bolivio's  squaw  kep'  it  after  Bolivio  was  knifed. 
And  by  and  by  along  come  this  Dan  Smeed  and 
his  partner  to  this  country.  And  when  Dan 
Smeed  married  into  the  tribe  he  got  the  saddle 
and  bridle  and  martingales  somehow.  That  was 
later — years  later.  Bolivio's  been  dead  over 
seventy  year." 

"Have  you  ever  heard  the  name  Peter  Drew?" 
Oliver  asked  him. 

But  the  old  eyes  remained  blank,  and  the  grey 
head  shook  slowly  from  side  to  side.  "I  rec- 
ollect clear  as  day  what  happened  sixty  to 
seventy  year  ago,  but  I  can't  recollect  what  I 
did  last  week  or  where  I  went,"  Dad  Sloan  said 
pathetically.  "If  I'd  ever  heard  o'  Peter  Drew 
in  the  days  o'  forty-nine  to  seventy,  I'd  recollect 
it." 

"You  mentioned  Dan  Smeed's  partner," 
prompted  Jessamy.  "Can  you  recall  his  name?" 

"Yes,  Dan  Smeed  had  a  partner,"  mused  Dad 
Sloan.  "Bad  egg,  Dan  Smeed.  Squawman. 
highwayman,  outlaw.  Disappeared  with  his 
fine  saddle  and  bridle  and  martingales  and  the 
stones  from  the  lost  mine  o'  Bolivio." 

"But  his  partner's  name?"  the  girl  persisted. 

The  old  mind  seemed  to  be  wandering  once 


LILAC  SPODUMENE  73 

more.  "Bad  eggs — both  of  'em.  Bad  eggs,"  was 
the  only  answer  she  could  get. 

''Well,  we're  progressing  slowly,"  Jessamy 
observed  as  they  rode  away.  "Our  next  step 
must  be  to  visit  the  Indians.  I  know  a  number 
of  them.  Filipe  Maquaquish,  for  instance,  and 
Chupurosa  are  as  old  or  older  than  Old  Dad 
Sloan.  Chupurosa's  face  is  a  pattern  in  crinkled 
leather.  When  we  go  to  see  Aunt  Nancy  Fleet 
we'll  visit  the  Indian  village.  And  that  will 
be — when?" 

"Tomorrow,  if  you  say  so,"  Oliver  replied. 
"I  meant  to  irrigate  my  garden  tomorrow,  but  it 
can  wait  a  day." 

"By  the  way,"  she  asked,  ."have  you  written 
that  letter  to  Mr.  Selden,  telling  him  what  we 
found  out  down  at  the  county  seat?" 

"I  have  it  in  my  pocket,"  he  told  her. 

"Give  it  to  me,"  she  ordered.  "I'll  hand  it  in 
at  the  post  office,  get  them  to  stamp  the  postmark 
on  it,  and  take  it  home  with  me  when  I  go." 

"Will  you  dare  do  that?  Won't  the  post- 
master scent  a  conspiracy  against  Old  Man 
Selden?" 

"Let  him  scent!"  said  Jessamy.  "I'm  dying 
to  see  Selden's  face  when  he  reads  that  letter." 

They  parted  at  the  headwaters  of  Clinker 
Creek,  with  the  understanding  that  she  would 
meet  him  in  the  county  road  next  morning  for 
the  ride  to  her  aunt's  and  the  Indian  reservation. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

POISON  OAK  RANCH 

THE  trail  that  meandered  down  Clinker 
Creek  Canon  extended  at  right  angles 
to  the  one  that  led  to  the  Selden  ranch. 
The  latter  climbed  a  baldpate  hill ;  then,  winding 
its  narrow  way  through  dense  locked  chaparral 
higher  than  horse  and  rider,  dipped  down  pre- 
cipitously into  the  deep  canon  of  the  American 
Eiver. 

Jessamy  waved  good-bye  to  her  new  friend  at 
the  parting  of  the  ways  and  lifted  White  Ann  in- 
to her  long  lope  to  the  summit  of  the  denuded 
hill.  For  a  little,  as  they  crossed  the  topmost 
part  of  it,  the  deep,  rugged  scar  that  marked  the 
course  of  the  river  was  visible.  Eagged  and 
rocky  and  covered  with  trees  and  chaparral,  the 
canonside  slanted  down  dizzily  for  over  fifteen 
hundred  feet.  At  the  bottom  the  deep  green 
river  rushed  pell-mell  to  the  lower  levels.  A 
moment  and  the  view  was  lost  to  the  girl,  as 
White  Ann  entered  the  thick  chaparral  and 
started  the  swift  descent. 

74 


POISON  OAK  RANCH  75 

At  last  they  reached  the  bottom,  forded  the 
swirling  stream,  and  began  clambering  up  a 
trail  as  steep  as  the  first  on  the  other  side.  Soon 
the  river  was  lost  to  view  again,  for  once  more  the 
trail  had  been  cut  through  a  seemingly  impene- 
trable chaparral  of  buckthorn,  manzanita  and 
scrub  oak.  Around  and  about  tributary  canons 
they  wound  their  way,  and  at  last  reached  the 
end  of  the  steep  climb.  For  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
now  the  trail  followed  the  backbone  of  a  ridge, 
then  entered  a  canon  that  eventually  spread  out 
into  a  pine-bordered  plateau  on  the  mountain- 
side. Just  ahead  lay  Poison  Oak  Ranch.  Be- 
yond, the  deep,  dark  forest  extended  in  miles 
numbered  by  hundreds  to  the  snow-mantled 
peaks  of  the  Sierra  Nevada  range. 

While  it  was  possible  to  reach  Poison  Oak 
Ranch  from  this  side  of  the  river,  the  journey  on 
Shank's  mare  would  have  taken  on  something  of 
the  nature  of  an  exploring  expedition  into  un- 
mapped lands.  Occasionally  hunters  wandered 
to  or  past  the  ranch  on  this  side ;  but  for  the  most 
part  any  one  who  fancied  that  he  had  business  at 
Poison  Oak  Ranch  came  over  the  narrow  trail 
that  connected  the  spot  with  outside  civilization. 
Few  entertained  such  a  fancy,  however,  for 
Poison  Oak  Ranch,  secluded,  hidden  from  sight, 
tucked  away  in  the  Hills  of  Nowhere,  and  diffi- 
cult of  access,  was  owned  and  controlled  by  a 


76        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

clannish  family  that  had  little  in  common  with 
the  world. 

There  was  a  large  log  house  that  Adam 
Selden's  father  had  built  in  the  days  of  '49,  in 
which  the  Old  Man  Selden  of  today  had  first 
opened  his  eyes  on  life.  There  were  several 
lesser  cabins  in  the  mountainside  cup,  two  of 
which  were  occupied  by  Hurlock  Selden  and 
Winthrop  Selden  and  their  families.  The  re- 
maining two  boys,  Moffat  and  Bolar,  lived  in 
the  big  house  with  Jessamy,  her  mother,  and  the 
wicked  Old  Man  of  the  Hills. 

There  was  an  extensive  garden,  watered  by  a 
generous  spring  that  gushed  picturesquely  from 
under  a  gigantic  boulder  set  in  the  hillside. 
There  were  perhaps  ten  acres  of  pasture,  and  a 
small  deciduous  orchard.  Little  more  in  the  way 
of  agricultural  land.  The  Seldens  merely  made 
this  place  their  home  and  headquarters — their 
cattle  ranged  the  hills  outside,  and  most  of  their 
activities  toward  a  livelihood  were  carried  on 
away  from  home.  Selden  owned  a  thousand 
acres  over  in  the  Clinker  Creek  Country  and  a 
winter  range  a  trifle  larger  fifty  miles  below  the 
foothills.  He  moved  his  herds  three  times  in  a 
year — from  the  winter  pastures  to  the  Clinker 
Creek  Country  for  the  spring  grass,  keeping  them 
there  till  August,  when  they  were  driven  to 
government  mountain  ranges  at  an  altitude  of 


POISON  OAK  RANCH  77 

six  thousand  feet;  and  from  tlfence,  in  October, 
to  winter  range  once  more.  The  Clinker  Creek 
range,  however,  was  comprised  of  several 
thousand  acres  beside  the  thousand  owned  by 
Selden.  This  represented  lands  long  since  de- 
serted by  their  owners  as  useless  for  agricultural 
purposes,  and  upon  which  Selden  kept  up  the 
taxes,  or  appropriated  without  negotiations,  as 
conditions  demanded.  Oliver  Drew's  forty  had 
been  a  part  of  this  until  Oliver's  inopportune 
arrival. 

Jessamy  rode  into  the  rail  corral  and  unsad- 
dled her  mare.  Then  she  hurried  to  the  house 
to  help  her  mother,  a  tired  looking,  once  comely 
woman  of  fifty-eight. 

Mrs.  Selden  had  been  an  Ivison — a  sister  of 
Old  Tabor  Ivison,  who  had  homesteaded  Oliver's 
forty  acres  thirty  years  before.  As  a  girl  she 
had  married  Herman  Lomax,  a  country  youth 
with  ambitions  for  the  city.  He  had  done  fairly 
well  in  the  mercantile  business  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, and  Jessamy,  the  only  child,  was  born  to 
them.  The  girl  had  been  raised  to  young 
womanhood  and  attended  the  State  University. 
Then  her  father  had  died,  leaving  his  business  in 
an  involved  condition ;  and  in  the  end  the  widow 
and  her  daughter  found  there  was  little  left  for 
them. 

They  returned  to  the  scene  of  Mrs.  Lomax's 


78        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

girlhood,  where  they  tried  without  success  to 
farm  the  old  home  place,  to  which,  in  the  interim, 
the  widow  had  fallen  heir.  Then  to  the  sur- 
prise of  every  one — Jessamy  most  of  all — Mrs. 
Lomax  consented  to  marry  Old  Adam  Selden, 
the  father  of  four  strapping  sons  and  "the  mean- 
est man  in  the  country."  At  the  time  Jessamy 
had  not  known  this  last,  but  she  knew  it  now. 

However,  such  an  independent  young  woman 
as  Jessamy  would  not  consent  to  suffer  a  great 
deal  at  the  hands  of  a  stepfather.  She  stayed 
on  with  the  family  for  her  mother's  sake,  but 
she  had  her  own  neat  living  room  and  bedroom 
and  went  her  own  way  entirely.  It  must  end 
someday.  Old  Adam  Selden,  though  hard  and 
tough  as  a  time-battered  oak,  could  not  live  for 
ever.  Her  mother  would  not  divorce  him.  So 
Jessamy  stayed  and  waited,  and  rode  over  the 
hills  alone,  unafraid  and  independent. 

She  was  helping  her  mother  to  get  supper  in 
the  commodious  kitchen,  with  its  black  log  walls 
and  immense  stone  fireplace,  which  room  served 
as  dining  room  and  living  room  as  well,  when 
Adam  Selden,  Bolar,  and  Moffat  rode  in  from 
the  trail  and  corraled  their  horses.  Supper  was 
ready  as  the  three  clanked  to  the  house  in  spurs 
and  chaps,  and  washed  noisily  in  basins  under 
a  gigantic  liveoak  at  the  cabin  door.  Then 
Jessamy  took  Oliver  Drew's  letter  from  her 


POISON  OAK  RANCH  79 

bosom  and  propped  it  against  old  Adam's  coffee 
cup. 

Selden's  bushy  brows  came  down  as  he 
scraped  his  chair  to  the  table.  Mail  for  any 
Selden  was  an  unusual  occurrence. 

"What's  this  here?"  Adam's  thick  fingers  held 
the  envelope  before  his  eyes,  and  the  beetling 
grey  brows  strained  lower. 

"Mail,"  indifferently  answered  Jessamy,  set- 
ting a  pan  of  steaming  biscuits,  covered  with  a 
spotless  cloth,  on  the  table. 

"Fer  me?" 

"  'Adam  Selden,  Esquire,' "  she  quoted. 

"'Esquire,'  eh?     Who's  she  from?" 

"It's  generally  customary  to  open  a  letter  and 
read  who  it  is  from,"  said  Jessamy  lightly.  "In 
this  instance,  however,  you  will  find  a  notation 
on  the  flap  of  the  envelope  that  reads:  'From 
Oliver  Drew,  Halfmoon  Flat,  California.' " 

"Huh!"  Selden  raised  his  shaggy  head  and 
bent  a  condemnatory  glance  on  the  girl. 

"D'he  give  it  to  ye?" 

"It  is  postmarked  Halfmoon  Flat,"  said  Jes- 
samy, taking  her  seat  beside  Bolar,  who,  indif- 
ferent to  his  father's  difficulties,  had  already 
consumed  three  fluffy  biscuits  spread  with  but- 
ter and  wild  honey. 

"Ye  got  her  out  o'  the  office,  then?"  The  cold 
blue  eyes  were  challenging. 


80 

"Oh,  certainly,  certainly!"  Jessamy  chirruped 
impatiently.  "One  might  imagine  you'd  never 
received  a  letter  before." 

Adam  fingered  it  thoughtfully.  "Yes,"  he 
said  deliberatingly  at  last,  reverting  to  his  cus- 
tomary drawl,  "I  got  letters  before  now.  But  I 
was  just  wonderin'  if  this  Drew  fella  give  thisun 
to  you  to  give  to  me." 

Jessamy's  round  left  shoulder  gave  a  little 
shrug  of  indifference.  "Coffee,  Moffat?"  she 
asked. 

"Sure  Mike,"  said  Moffat. 

"Did  he?"  Selden's  tones  descended  to  the 
deep  bass  boom  which  marked  certain  moods. 

"Oh,  dear!"  Jessamy  complained  good-natur- 
edly. "What's  the  use?  Can't  you  see  the  post- 
mark and  the  cancelled  stamp,  Mr.  Selden?" 

Selden  contemplated  them.  "Yes,  I  see  'em," 
he  admitted;  "I  see  'em.  But  I  thought,  s' 
long's  ye  was  with  that  young  Drew  fella  today, 
he  might  'a'  saved  his  stamp  and  sent  her  to  me 
by  you." 

"That  being  satisfactorily  decided,"  chirped 
Jessamy,  "let  us  now  open  the  missive  and 
learn  what  Mr.  Drew  has  to  communicate." 

"Heaven's  sake,  Pap,  open  it  and  shut  up!" 
growled  Moffat,  his  mouth  full  of  potato. 

"I'll  take  a  quirt  to  you  if  ye  tell  me  to  shut 
up  ag'in !"  thundered  Selden. 


POISON  OAK  KANCH  81 

Thereupon  he  tore  the  envelope  and  leaned 
out  from  his  chair  so  that  the  light  from  a  win- 
dow flooded  the  single  sheet  which  the  envel- 
ope contained. 

He  read  silently,  slowly,  craggy  brows  drawn 
down.  His  cold  blue  eyes  widened,  and  the 
large  nostrils  of  his  pitted  Bourbon  nose  spread 
angrily. 

"Moffat,  listen  here!"  he  boomed  at  last. 
"You,  too,  Bolar." 

"Yes,  be  sure  to  listen,  Bolar,"  laughed  Jes- 
samy.  "But  if  you  don't  wish  to,  go  down  into 
the  canon  of  the  American." 

"  'Adam  Selden,  Esquire,'  "  Selden  boomed  on, 
unheeding  the  girl's  bantering.  "  'Poison  Oak 
Ranch,  Halfmoon  Flat,  Californy:' 

"'My  dear  Mr.  Selden.'  Get  that,  Moffat! 
'My  dear  Mr.  Selden!'  Say,  who's  that  Ike 
think  he's  writin'  to?  His  gal?  Huh!  'My 
dear  Mr.  Selden:' 

"  'I  rode  to  the  county  seat  on  Wednesday, 
this  week,  and  looked  over  the  records  in  the  of- 
fice of  the  recorder  of  deeds.  I  found  that  you 
are  entirely  mistaken  in  the  matter  that  you 
brought  to  my  attention  on  Tuesday.  The 
forty  acres  known  as  the  Old  Ivison  Place  are 
recorded  in  my  name,  the  date  of  the  recording 
being  January  fifth,  this  year.  It  appears  that 
Nancy  Fleet  sold  the  place  years  ago  to  my 


82        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

father,  but  that  the  transfer  was  not  placed  on 
record  until  the  date  I  have  mentioned.' 

"  'With  kindest  regards/ 

"  'Yours  sincerely,  Oliver  Drew.'  " 

Selden  came  to  an  ominous  pause  and  glared 
about  the  table.  "Writ  with  a  typewriter,  all 
but  his  name,"  he  announced  impressively. 
"And  he's  a  liar  by  the  clock!" 

Jessamy  threw  back  her  head  in  that  whole- 
souled  laughter  that  made  every  one  who  heard 
her  laugh. 

"He's  crazy,"  complacently  mumbled  Bolar, 
still  at  war  on  the  biscuits. 

"Jess'my" — Selden's  eyes  were  fixed  sternly 
on  his  stepdaughter — "What're  ye  laughin'  at?" 

"At  humanity's  infinite  variety,"  answered 
Jessamy. 

"Does  that  mean  me?" 

"Me,  too,  Pete !"  she  rippled. 

"Looky-here" — he  leaned  toward  her — "there's 
some  funny  business  goin'  on  'round  here.  Two 
times  ye  been  seen  ridin'  with  that  new  fella 
down  on  the  Old  Ivison  Place." 

"Two  times  is  right,"  she  slangily  agreed. 

"And  ye  rode  with  'im  to  the  county  seat  when 
he  went  to  see  the  records.  Just  so!" 

"Your  informer  is  accurate,"  taunted  the  girl. 

"What  for?" 

"What  for?"    She  levelled  her  disconcerting 


POISON  OAK  RANCH  83 

gaze  at  him.  "Well,  I  like  that,  Mr.  Selden! 
Because  I  wanted  to,  if  you  must  pry  into  my 
affairs." 

"Ye  wanted  to,  eh?  Ye  wanted  to!  Did  ye 
see  the  records?" 

"I  did." 

"Is  this  here  letter  a  lie?"  He  spanked  the 
table  with  it. 

"It  is  not." 

He  rose  from  his  chair  and  bent  over  her. 
"D'ye  mean  to  tell  me  yer  maw's  sister  don't  own 
that  prop'ty?" 

"Exactly.  It  belongs  to  Mr.  Oliver  Drew,  ac- 
cording to  the  recorder's  office.  May  I  suggest 
that  I  am  rather  proud  of  my  biscuits  tonight, 
and  that  they're  growing  cold  as  lumps  of  clay?" 

"It's  a  lie!"  roared  Selden. 

"Now,  just  a  moment,"  said  Jessamy  coolly. 
"Do  I  gather  that  you, are  calling  me  a  liar,  Mr. 
Selden?  Because  if  you  are,  I'll  get  a  cattle 
whip  and  do  my  utmost  to  make  you  swallow  it. 
I'll  probably  get  the  worst  of  it,  but — " 

"Shut  up !"  bawled  Selden.  "Ye  know  what  I 
mean,  right  enough!  The  whole  dam'  thing's 
a  lie!" 

"Tell  it  to  the  county  recorder,  then,"  Jes- 
samy advised  serenely.  "Have  another  piece  of 
steak,  Mother." 

"I'll  ride  right  up  to  Nancy  Fleet's  tomorrow. 


84        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

I'll  get  to  the  bottom  o'  this  business.  And  you 
keep  yer  young  nose  outa  my  affairs,  Jess'my!" 

"Oh,  I'll  do  that— gladly.     That's  easy." 

"Just  so!  Then  keep  her  outa  this  fella 
Drew's,  too!" 

"That's  another  matter  entirely,"  she  told 
him.  "And  I  may  as  well  add  right  here,  while 
we're  on  the  subject,  that  I  wish  you  to  keep 
your  nose  out  of  my  affairs.  There,  now — we've 
ruined  our  digestions  by  quarrelling  at  meal- 
time. Bolar  hasn't,  though — I'm  glad  some- 
body appreciates  my  biscuits." 

Bolar  grinned,  and  his  face  grew  red.  Bolar 
wras  deeply  in  love  with  his  step-sister,  four 
years  his  senior ;  but  a  day  in  the  saddle,  with  a 
sharp  spring  wind  in  one's  face,  will  scarce  per- 
mit the  tender  passion  to  interfere  with  a  lover's 
appetite. 

Old  Adam  enveloped  himself  in  his  customary 
brooding  silence.  He  was  a  holy  terror  when 
aroused,  and  would  then  spout  torrents  of 
words;  but  ordinarily  he  was  morosely  quiet, 
taciturn.  He  would  not  have  hesitated  to  ap- 
ply his  quirt  to  his  twenty-six-year-old  son  Mof- 
fat,  as  he  had  threatened  to  do,  had  not  that 
young  man  possessed  the  wisdom  born  of  experi- 
ence to  refrain  from  defying  him.  But  with  his 
stepdaughter  it  was  different.  For  some  inex- 
plicable reason  he  "took  more  sass"  from  her 


POISON  OAK  RANCH  85 

than  from  any  other  person  living.  Deep  down 
in  his  scarred  old  heart,  perhaps,  there  was  hid- 
den a  deferential  respect  and  fatherly  admira- 
tion for  this  breezy,  strong-minded  girl  with 
whom  a  strange  fortune  had  placed  him  in  daily 
contact. 

"Please  eat  your  supper,  Mr.  Selden,"  Jes 
samy  at  last  sincerely  pleaded,  when  the  old 
man's  frowning  abstraction  had  continued  for 
minutes. 

Dutifully,  without  a  word,  he  scraped  his 
chair  closer  to  the  table  and  fell  to  noisily. 
But  he  did  not  join  in  the  conversation,  which 
now  became  general. 

It  was  a  custom  in  the  House  of  Selden  for 
each  diner  to  leave  the  table  when  he  had  fin- 
ished eating — a  custom  antedating  Jessamy's  ad- 
vent in  th.e  family,  which  she  never  had  been 
able  to  correct.  Bolar  had  long  since  bolted  the 
last  morsel  of  food  that  his  tough  young  stomach 
would  permit,  and  had  hurried  to  a  half-com- 
pleted rawhide  lariat.  Moffat  soon  followed 
him  out.  Then  Jessamy's  mother  arose  and  left 
the  room.  This  left  together  at  the  table  the 
deliberate  eater,  Jessamy,  and  the  old  man,  who 
had  not  yet  caught  up  with  the  time  he  had 
given  to  the  letter. 

He  too  finished  before  the  girl,  having  com- 
pleted his  supper  in  the  same  untalkative  mood. 


86        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

Now,  however,  he  spoke  to  her  as  he  pushed  back 
his  chair  and  rose. 

"Jess'my,"  he  said  in  a  moderate  tone,  "I 
want  to  tell  ye  one  thing.  Ye  know  that  I  shoot 
straight  from  the  shoulder,  or  straight  from  the 
hip,  whichever's  handiest — and  I  don't  shoot  to 
scare." 

He  waited. 

Jessamy  nodded.  "I'll  have  to  admit  that," 
she  said.  "I  think  it's  the  thing  I  like  most 
about  you." 

He  pondered  over  this,  and  again  his  brows 
came  down  above  his  pitted  nose.  "I  didn't 
know  they  was  anything  ye  liked  about  me,"  he 
at  length  said  bluntly. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  remarked,  levelling  that 
straightforward  look  of  hers  at  him.  "I  like 
your  height  and  the  breadth  of  your  chest,  and 
the  way  you  sit  in  your  saddle  when  your  horse 
is  on  the  dead  run — and  the  other  thing  I  men- 
tioned before." 

Again  he  grew  thoughtful.  "Well,  that's 
something"  he  finally  chuckled.  "Ye  like  my 
way  o'  sayin'  what  I  think,  then.  Well,  get 
this:  I'm  the  boss  o'  this  country,  from  Red 
Mountain  to  the  Gap.  I  been  the  boss  of  her 
since  my  pap  died  and  turned  her  over  to  me. 
So  it's  the  boss  o'  the  Poison  Oak  Country  that's 
talkin'.  And  he  says  this :  That  new  fella  Drew 


POISON  OAK  RANCH  87 

that's  made  camp  down  on  the  Old  Tabor  Ivison 
Place  can't  make  a  livin'  there,  can't  raise 
nothing  don't  belong  there.  And  if  by  some 
funny  business,  that  I'm  gonta  look  into  right 
away,  he's  got  a-holt  o'  that  forty,  he's  got  to 
hit  the  trail." 

"Why,  how  ridiculous!"  laughed  the  girl. 
"Where  do  you  think  you  are,  Mr.  Selden?  In 
Russia — Germany?  King  Selden  Second,  Czar 
of  all  the  Poison  Oak  Provinces!  Mr.  Drew, 
owning  that  land  in  his  own  right,  must  hit  the 
trail  and  leave  it  for  you  simply  because  you  say 
so!" 

"Ye  heard  what  I  said,  Jess'my" — and  he 
clanked  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IX 

NANCY  FLEET'S  WINDFALL 

JESS  AMY  SELDEN  stood  before  the  cheap 
soft-wood  dresser  in  her  bedroom,  in  a 
wing  of  the  old  log  house,  and  completed 
the  braiding  of  the  two  long,  thick  strands  of 
cold-black  hair.  Then  in  the  cozy  little  sitting 
room,  which  adjoined  the  bedroom  and  was  hers 
alone,  she  slipped  on  her  morocco-top  riding 
boots  and  buckled  spur  straps  over  her  insteps. 
The  sun  had  not  yet  climbed  the  wooded 
ridges  beyond  Poison  Oak  Ranch.  The  night 
before  the  girl  had  prepared  a  cold  breakfast  for 
herself ;  and  with  this  wrapped  in  paper  she  left 
the  sitting  room  by  its  outside  door  and  ran  to 
the  corral.  The  family  was  at  breakfast  in  the 
vast  room.  Hurlock's  and  Winthrop's  families 
were  likewise  engaged  in  their  respective  houses. 
So  no  one  was  about  to  disturb  or  even  see 
Jessamy  as  she  hastily  threw  the  saddle  on 
White  Ann,  leaped  into  it,  and  rode  away. 

When  she  had  left  the  clearing,  and  the  noise 
of  rapid  hoofbeats  would  not  be  heard,  she  lifted 
the  mare  into  a  gallop.  At  this  reckless  speed 

88 


NANCY  FLEET'S  WINDFALL         89 

they  swung  into  the  trail  and  plunged  hazard- 
ously down  the  mountainside  along  the  serpen- 
tine trail.  They  forded  the  river,  took  the  trail 
on  the  other  side,  and  raced  madly  up  it  until 
compassion  for  her  labouring  mount  forced  the 
rider  to  rein  in.  Now  she  ate  her  breakfast  of 
cold  baked  apple  and  cold  fried  mush  in  the 
saddle  as  the  mare  clambered  upward. 

At  sunrise  they  topped  the  ridge  and  took  up 
the  lope  again  toward  the  headwaters  of  Clinker 
Creek.  Long  before  she  reached  it  Jessamy  saw 
a  bay  horse  and  its  rider  at  rest,  with  the  early 
sunlight  playing  on  the  flashing  silver  of  the 
famous  saddle  and  bridle  of  Oliver  Drew. 

"Let's  go!"  she  cried  merrily  as  White  Ann, 
convinced  that  some  devilment  was  afoot,  ca- 
vorted and  humped  her  back  and  shied  from  side 
to  side  while  she  bore  down  swiftly  on  the  wait- 
ing pair. 

For  answer  Oliver  Drew  pressed  his  calves 
against  Poche's  ribs,  and  the  bay  leaped  to 
White  Ann's  side  with  a  snort  that  showed  he 
had  caught  the  spirit  of  the  coming  adventure, 
whatever  it  might  prove  to  be.  At  a  gallop  they 
swung  into  the  county  road,  Poche  producing  a 
challenging  metallic  rattle  by  rolling  the  wheel 
of  his  halfbreed  bit  with  his  tongue,  straining  at 
the  reins,  and  bidding  the  equally  defiant  white 
to  do  that  of  which  "angels  could  do  no  more." 


90        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Good  morning!"  cried  Oliver.  "What's  the 
rush?" 

"Old  Man  Selden  is  riding  to  Aunt  Nancy's  to- 
day," she  shouted  back.  "Good  morning!" 

"Oh!  In  that  case,  if  that  white  crowbait 
you're  riding  hadn't  already  come  three  miles, 
we'd  find  out  whether  she  can  run.  She's  tell- 
ing the  world  she  can." 

Jessamy  made  a  face  at  him  and,  leaning  for- 
ward, caressed  the  mare's  smooth  neck.  White 
Ann  evidently  considered  this;  a  sign  of  abet- 
ment, for  she  plunged  and  reared  and  cast  fiery 
looks  of  scorn  at  her  pseudo  rival. 

"There,  there,  honey!"  soothed  the  girl.  "We 
could  leave  that  old  flea-bitten  relic  so  far  be- 
hind it  would  be  cruelty  to  animals  to  do  it. 
Just  wait  till  we're  coming  back,  after  we've 
rested  and  have  an  even  chance;  for  I  really  be- 
lieve the  man  wants  to  be  fair." 

Oliver's  eyes  were  filled  with  her  as  her 
strong,  sinewy  figure  followed  every  unexpected 
movement  of  the  plunging  mare  as  if  a  magnet 
held  her  in  the  saddle.  The  dew  of  the  morn- 
ing was  on  her  lips;  the  flush  of  it  on  her  cheeks. 
Her  long  black  braids  whipped  about  in  the 
wind  like  streamers  from  the  gown  of  a  classic 
dancer.  The  picture  she  made  was  the  most  en- 
grossing one  he  had  ever  looked  on. 

They  slowed  to  a  walk  after  a  mile  of  it. 


NANCY  FLEET'S  WINDFALL         91 

"Well,"  said  Jessamy,  "I  delivered  your  let- 
ter." 

"Yes?    Go  on.     That's  a  good  start." 

"It  created  quite  a  scene.  Old  Adam  simply 
won't — can't — believe  that  you  own  the  Old  Ivi- 
son  Place.  So  that's  why  he's  fogging1  it  up  to 
Aunt  Nancy's  today.  I  think  we'll  be  an  hour 
ahead  of  him,  though,  and  can  be  at  the  reserva- 
tion by  the  time  he  reaches  the  house." 

"Is  he  angry?" 

"Ever  try  to  convince  a  wasp  that  you  have 
more  right  on  earth  than  he  has?"  Her  white 
teeth  gleamed  against  the  background  of  red 
lips  and  sunburned  skin. 

"Well?" 

"He  says  that,  whether  you  own  the  place  cr 
not,  you'll  have  to  leave." 

"M'm-m !  That's  serious  talk.  In  some  places 
I've  visited  it  would  be  called  fighting  talk." 

"Number  this  place  among  them,  Mr.  Drew," 
she  said  soberly,  turning  her  dark,  serious  eyes 
upon  him. 

"But  I  didn't  come  up  here  to  fight!" 

"Neither  did  the  President  of  the  United 
States  take  his  seat  in  Washington  to  fight,"  she 
pointed  out,  keeping  that  level  glance  fixed  on 
his  face. 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  mused  Oliver  after  a  thought- 
ful pause,  "I  guess  I  can  fight.  They  didn't 


92        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

send  me  back  from  France  as  entirely  useless. 
But  it  strikes  me  as  a  very  stupid  proceeding. 
Look  here,  Miss  Selden — how  many  acres  of 
grass  does  your  step — er — Old  Man  Selden  run 
cows  on  for  the  summer  grazing? — how  many 
acres  in  the  Clinker  Creek  Country,  in  short?" 

Jessamy  pursed  her  lips.  "Perhaps  four 
thousand,"  she  decided  after  thought. 

"Uh-huh.  And  on  my  forty  there's  about  fif- 
teen acres,  all  told,  that  represents  grass  land. 
The  rest  is  timber  and  chaparral.  Now,  fifteen 
acres  added  to  four  thousand  makes  four  thou- 
sand fifteen  acres.  The  addition  would  take 
care  of  perhaps  five  additional  animals  for  the 
three  months  or  more  that  his  stock  remains  in 
that  locality.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that 
Adam  Selden  would  attempt  to  run  a  man  out 
of  the  country  for  that?" 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  nodded  her  head 
slowly  up  and  down  in  a  childlike  fashion  that 
always  amused  him.  It  meant  "Just  that!" 

He  gave  a  short  laugh  of  unbelief. 

"Listen,"  she  cautioned:  "Don't  make  the 
fatal  mistake  of  taking  this  matter  too  lightly, 
Mr.  Drew." 

"But  heavens !"  he  cried.  "A  man  who  would 
attempt  to  dispossess  another  for  such  a  slight 
gain  as  that  would  rob  a  blind  beggar  of  the  pen- 
nies in  his  cup !  I've  had  a  short  interview  with 


NANCY  FLEET'S  WINDFALL         93 

Old  Man  Selden.  Corrupt  he  may  be,  but  he 
struck  me  as  an  old  sinner  who  would  be  cor- 
rupt on  a  big  scale.  I  couldn't  think  of  the  mas- 
terful old  reprobate  I  talked  with  as  a  piker." 

Jessamy  locked  a  leg  about  her  saddle  horn. 
"You've  got  him  about  right,"  she  informed  her 
companion.  "One  simply  is  obliged  to  think 
of  him  as  big  in  many  ways." 

Oliver's  leg  now  crooked  itself  toward  her, 
and  he  slouched  down  comfortably.  "Say,"  he 
said,  "I  don't  get  you  at  all." 

"Don't  get  me?"  She  was  not  looking  at  him 
now. 

"No,  I  don't.  One  moment  you  said  he  would 
put  the  skids  under  me  for  the  slight  benefit 
from  my  fifteen  acres  of  grass.  Next  moment 
you  maintain  that  he  is  not  a  piker." 

"Yes." 

Oliver  rolled  a  cigarette.  Not  until  it  was 
alight  did  he  say: 

"Well,  you  haven't  explained  yet." 

She  was  silent,  her  eyes  on  the  glittering  snow 
of  the  far-off  Sierras.  For  the  first  time  since  he 
had  met  her  he  found  her  strangely  at  a  loss  for 
words.  And  had  her  direct  gaze  faltered? 
Were  her  eyes  evading  his?  And  was  the  rich 
colour  of  her  skin  a  trifle  heightened,  or  was  it 
the  glow  from  the  sun,  ever  reddening  as  it 
climbed  its  ancient  ladder  in  the  sky? 


94         THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

She  turned  to  him  then— suddenly.  There 
was  in  her  eyes  a  look  partly  of  amusement, 
partly  of  chagrin,  partly  of  shame. 

"I  can't  answer  you,"  she  stated  simply.  "I 
blundered,  that's  all.  Opened  my  mouth  and 
put  my  foot  in  it." 

"But  can't  you  tell  me  how  you  did  that 
even?" 

"I  talk  too  much,"  was  her  explanation. 
"Like  poor  old  Henry  Dodd,  I  went  too  far  on 
dangerous  ground." 

Oliver  tilted  his  Stetson  over  one  eye  and 
scratched  the  nape  of  his  neck.  "I  pass,"  he 
said. 

"That  reminds  me,"  was  her  quick  return,  "I 
sat  in  at  a  dandy  game  of  draw  last  night. 
There  was — " 

"Wh-what!" 

"And  now  I  have  both  feet  in  my  mouth,"  she 
cried.  "And  you'll  have  to  admit  that  comes 
under  the  heading,  'Some  Stunt.'  I  thought  I 
saw  a  chance  to  brilliantly  change  the  subject, 
but  I  see  that  I'm  worse  off  than  before.  For 
now  you're  not  only  mystified  but  terribly 
shocked." 

He  gave  this  thirty  seconds  of  study. 

"I'll  have  to  admit  that  you  jolted  me,"  he 
laughed,  his  face  a  little  redder.  "I'm  not  ac- 
customed to  hearing  young  ladies  say,  'I  sat  in 


NANCY  FLEET'S  WINDFALL        95 

at  a  dandy  little  game  of  draw' — just  like  that. 
But  I'm  sure  I  went  too  far  when  I  showed  sur- 
prise." 

"And  what's  your  final  opinion  on  the  mat- 
ter?" She  was  amused —  Not  worried,  not  de- 
fiant. 

"Well,  I — I  don't  just  know.  I've  never 
given  such  a  matter  a  great  deal  of  thought." 

"Do  so  now,  please." 

Obediently  he  tried  as  they  rode  along. 

"One  thing  certain,"  he  said  at  last,  "it's  your 
own  business." 

"Oh,  you  haven't  thought  at  all!    Keep  on." 

A  minute  later  he  asked :  "Do  you  like  to  play 
poker?" 

"Yes." 

"For — er — money  ?" 

"  'For — er — money/  What  d'ye  suppose — 
crochet  needles?" 

Then  he  took  up  his  studies  once  more. 

Finally  he  roused  himself,  removed  his  leg 
from  the  horn,  and  straightened  in  the  saddle. 

"Settled  at  last!"  she  cried.  "And  the  an- 
swer is  .  .  .  ?" 

"The  answer  is,  I  don't  give  a  whoop  if  you 
do." 

"You  approve,  then?" 

"Of  everything  you  do." 

"Well,  I  don't  approve  of  that,"  she  told  him. 


96        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"I  don't,  and  I  do.  But  listen  here :  One  of  the 
few  quotations  that  I  think  I  spout  accurately 
is  'When  in  Rome  do  as  the  Romans  do.'  I'm 
'way  off  there  in  the  hills.  I'm  a  pretty  lonely 
person,  as  I  once  before  informed  you.  Yet  I'm 
a  gregarious  creature.  We  have  no  piano,  few 
books — not  even  a  phonograph.  Bolar  Selden 
squeezes  a  North-Sea  piano — in  other  words  an 
accordion.  Of  late  years  accordion  playing  has 
been  elevated  to  a  place  among  the  arts;  but  if 
you  could  hear  Bolar  you'd  be  convinced  that 
he  hasn't  kept  pace  with  progress.  He  plays 
'The  Cowboy's  Lament'  and  something  about 
'Says  the  wee-do  to  the  law-yer,  O  spare  my  only 
che-ild!"  Ugh!  He  gives  me  the  jim-jams. 

"So  the  one  and  only  indoor  pastime  of  Sel- 
denvilla  is  draw  poker.  Now,  if  you  were  in 
my  place,  would  you  be  a  piker  and  a  spoilsport 
and  a  pink  little  prude,  or  would  you  be  human 
and  take  out  a  stack?" 

"I  understand,"  he  told  her.  "I  think  I'd 
take  out  a  stack." 

"And  besides,"  she  added  mischievously,  "I 
won  nine  dollars  and  thirty  cents  last  night." 

"That  makes  it  right  and  proper,"  he  chuckled. 
"But  we've  wandered  far  afield.  Why  did  you 
say  that  Selden  would  try  to  run  me  off  my  toy 
ranch  in  one  breath,  and  that  he  is  wicked  only 
in  a  big  way  in  the  next?" 


NANCY  FLEET'S  WINDFALL        97 

"I'd  prefer  to  quarrel  over  poker  playing,"  she 
said.  "Please,  I  blundered — and  I  can't  answer 
that  question.  But  maybe  you'll  learn  the  ans- 
wer to  it  today.  We'll  see.  Be  patient." 

"But  I'll  not  learn  from  you  direct." 

"I'm  afraid  not." 

"I  think  I  understand — partly,"  he  said  after 
another  intermission.  "It  must  be  that  there's 
another — a  bigger — reason  why  he  wants  me  out 
of  Clinker  Creek  Canon." 

"You've  guessed  it.  I  may  as  well  own  up  to 
that  much.  But  I  can't  tell  you  more — now. 
Don't  ask  me  to." 

After  this  there  was  nothing  for  the  man  to  do 
but  to  keep  silent  on  the  subject.  So  they 
talked  of  other  things  till  their  horses  jogged 
into  Calamity  Gap. 

Here  was  a  town  as  picturesque  as  Halfmoon 
Flat,  and  wrapped  in  the  same  traditions.  Jes- 
samy's  Aunt  Nancy  Fleet  lived  in  a  little  shake- 
covered  cottage  on  the  hillside,  overlooking  the 
drowsy  hamlet  and  the  railroad  tracks. 

It  appeared  that  all  of  the  Ivison  girls  had 
been  unfortunate  in  marrying  short-lived  men. 
Nancy  Fleet  was  a  widow,  and  two  other  sisters 
besides  Jessamy's  mother  had  likewise  lost  hus- 
bands. 

Nancy  Fleet  was  a  still  comely  woman  of 
sixty,  with  snow-white  hair  and  Jessamy's  black 


98       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

eyes.  She  greeted  her  niece  joyously,  and  soon 
the  three  were  seated  in  her  stuffy  little  parlour. 

Oliver  opened  up  the  topic  that  had  brought 
him  there.  Mrs.  Fleet,  after  stating  that  she 
did  so  because  he  was  Oliver  Drew,  readily  made 
answer  to  his  questions. 

Yes,  she  had  sold  the  Old  Ivison  Place  to  a 
Mr.  Peter  Drew  something  like  fifteen  years  be- 
fore. She  had  never  met  him  till  he  called  on 
her,  and  no  one  else  at  Calamity  Gap  had  known 
anything!  about  him. 

He  told  that  he  had  made  inquiry  concerning 
her,  and  that  this  had  resulted  in  his  becoming 
satisfied  that  she  was  a  woman  who  would  keep 
her  word  and  might  be  trusted  implicitly.  This 
being  so,  he  told  her  that  he  would  relieve  her 
of  the  Old  Ivison  Place,  if  she  would  agree  to 
keep  silent  regarding  the  transfer  until  he  or 
his  son  had  assured  her  that  secrecy  was  no 
longer  necessary.  For  her  consideration  of  his 
wishes  in,  this-  connection  he  told  her  that  he  was 
willing  to  pay  a*good  price  for  the  land. 

As  there  seemed  to  be  no  rascality  coupled 
with  the  request,  she  gave  consent.  For  years 
she  had  been  trying  to  dispose  of  the  property 
for  five  hundred  dollars.  Now  Peter  Drew 
fairly  took  her  breath  away  by  offering  twenty- 
five  hundred.  He  could  well  afford  to  pay 
this  amount,  he  claimed,  and  was  willing 


NANCY  FLEET'S  WINDFALL         99 

to  do  so  to  gain  her  co-operation  in  the  matter  of 
secrecy.  She  had  accepted.  The  transfer  of 
the  property  was  made  under  the  seal  of  a  no- 
tary public  at  the  county  seat,  and  the  money 
was  promptly  paid. 

Then  Peter  Drew  had  gone  away  with  his 
deed,  and  for  fifteen  years  she  had  made  the  in- 
habitants of  the  country  think  that  she  still 
owned  the  Old  Ivison  Place  simply  by  saying 
nothing  to  the  contrary.  She  had  been  told  to 
accept  any  rentals  that  she  might  be  able  to  de- 
rive from  it — to  use  it  as  her  own.  For  sev- 
eral years  Peter  Drew  had  regularly  forwarded 
her  a  bank  draft  to  cover  the  taxes.  Then 
Adam  Selden  had  offered  to  pay  the  taxes  for 
the  use  of  the  land,  and  she  had  written  Peter 
Drew  to  that  effect  and  told  him  to  send  no 
more  tax  money  until  further  notice.  Since 
that  date  she  had  heard  no  more  from  the  mys- 
terious purchaser  of  the  land. 

She  was  surprised  to  learn  that  the  transfer 
had  at  last  been  recorded,  but  could  throw  no 
light  whatever  on  the  proceedings. 

She  took  a  motherly  interest  in  Oliver  be- 
cause of  his  father,  whose  generosity  had  greatly 
benefited  her.  In  fact,  she  said,  she  couldn't  for 
the  life  of  her  tell  how  she'd  got  along  without 
that  money. 

"And    whatever   shall    I   say,    dearie,   when 


100      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

Adam  Selden  comes  to  me  today?''  she  asked  her 
niece.  "I'm  afraid  of  the  man — just  afraid  of 
him." 

"Pooh!"  Jessamy  deprecated.  "He's  only  a 
man.  Oliver  Drew's  coming,  and  the  fact  that 
the  transfer  has  at  last  been  placed  on  record 
leaves  you  free  to  tell  all  you  know.  So  just 
tell  Old  Adam  what  you've  told  Mr.  Drew,  and 
say  you  know  nothing  more  about  it.  But 
whatever  else  you  say,  don't  cheep  that  we've 
been  here,  Auntie." 

"Well,  I  hope  and  trust  he'll  believe  me,"  she 
sighed  as  she  showed  her  callers  out. 

"Now,"  said  Jessamy,  as  they  remounted, 
"we'll  ride  away  and  be  at  the  reservation  by  the 
time  Old  Adam  arrives  here.  What  do  you 
think  of  your  mystery  by  now,  Mr.  Drew?" 

"It  grows  deeper  and  deeper,"  Oliver  mused. 


CHAPTER  X 

JESSAMY'S   HUMMINGBIRD 

A  STEEP,  tall  mountain,  heavily  wooded, 
reared  itself  above  the  Indian  reserva- 
tion.   A  creek  tumbled  over  the  bould- 
ers in  the  mountainside  and  raced  through  the 
village  of  huts ;  and  the  combined  millions  of  all 
the  irrigation  and  power  companies  in  the  West 
could  not  have  bought  a  drop  of  its  water  until 
Uncle  Sam's  charges  had  finished  with  it  and  set 
it  free  again. 

It  was  a  picturesque  spot.  Huge  liveoaks, 
centuries  old,  sprawled  over  the  cabins.  Tiny 
gardens  dotted  the  sunny  land.  Horses  and 
dogs  were  anything  but  scarce,  and  up  the  moun- 
tainside goats  and  burros  browsed  off  the  chap- 
arral. Wrinkled  old  squaws  washed  clothes  at 
the  creekside,  or  pounded  last  season's  acorns 
into  bellota — the  native  dish — in  mortars  hol- 
lowed in  solid  stone.  Some  made  earthen  olios 
of  red  clay;  some  weaved  baskets.  Over  all 
hung  that  weird,  indescribable  odour  which  only 
Indians  or  their  much-handled  belongings  can 
produce. 

101 


102     THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"This  is  peace,"  smiled  Oliver  to  Jessamy,  as 
their  horses  leaped  the  stream  side  by  side  and 
cantered  toward  the  cluster  of  dark,  squat  huts. 
"What  do  they  call  this  reservation?" 

"It  is  named  after  an  age-old  dweller  in  our 
midst  whom,  since  you  are  a  Westerner,  you 
must  have  often  met." 

"Who  is  that?" 

"Mr.  Rattlesnake." 

"Oh,  certainly.  I've  met  him  on  many  oc- 
casions— mostly  to  his  sorrow,  I  fancy.  Rat- 
tlesnake Reservation,  eh?" 

"Well,  that  would  be  it  in  English.  But  in 
the  Pauba  tongue  Mr.  Rattlesnake  becomes 
Showut  Poche-daka." 

"What's  that!"  Oliver  turned  quickly  in  his 
saddle  to  find  her  dark  wide  eyes  fixed  on  him 
intently.  "Say  that  again,  please." 

"Showut  Poche-daka,"  she  repeated  slowly." 

"M'm-m!  Strikes  me  as  something  of  a  coin- 
cidence— a  part  of  that  name." 

"Showut  is  one  word,"  she  said,  still  watch- 
ing him.  "Poche  and  daka  are  two  words  hy- 
phenated." 

"And  how  do  the  English-speaking  people 
spell  the  second  word,  Poche?"  he  asked. 

"P-o-c-h-e,"  she  spelled  distinctly.  "Long  o, 
accent  on  the  first  syllable." 

Oliver  reined  in.    "Stop  a4  second,"  he  ordered 


JESSAMY'S  HUMMINGBIRD         103 

crisply.     "Why,  that's  the  way  my  horse's  name 
is  spelled.     Say,  that's  funny!" 

"Is  your  trail  growing  plainer?" 

He  looked  at  her  earnestly.  "Look  here,"  he 
said  bluntly.  "I  distinctly  remember  telling 
you  the  other  day  that  my  horse's  name  is  Poche. 
Didn't  you  connect  it  with  the  name  of  the  res- 
ervation at  the  time?" 

"I  did." 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence.  "You  did,  eh?" 
he  remarked  finally.  "I  don't  even  know  what 
my  horse's  name  means.  Dad  bought  him  while 
I  was  away  at  college.  I  understood  the  horse 
was  named  that  when  Dad  got  hold  of  him,  and 
that  he  merely  hadn't  changed  it.  Now,  I  won't 
say  that  Dad  told  me  as  much  outright,  but  I 
gathered  that  impression  somehow.  I  knew  it 
was  an  Indian  name,  but  had  no  idea  of  the 
meaning." 

"Literally  Poche  means  bob-tailed — short- 
tailed.  That's  why  it  occurs  in  the  title  of  our 
friend  Mr.  Rattlesnake.  While  your  Poche- 
horse  is  not  bob-tailed,  his  tail  is  rather  heavy 
and  short,  you;ll  admit.  Has  nothing  of  the 
length  and  graceful  sweep  of  White  Ann's  tail, 
if  you'll  pardon  me." 

""You  can't  lead  me  into  joshing  just  now, 
young  lady.  Answer  this:  Why  didn't  you  tell 
me,  when  I  told  you  my  caballo's  name,  that  you 


104      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

knew  what  it  meant?  Most  everybody  asks  me 
what  it  means  when  I  tell  'em  his  name;  but 
you  did  not  even  show  surprise  over  the  oddity 
of  it — and  I  wondered.  And  before,  when  you 
spoke  of  this  tribe  of  Indians,  you  called  them 
the  Paubas." 

"Certainly  I  showed  no  surprise,  for  I  am 
familiar  with  the  word  poche  and  have  just 
proved  that  I  know  its  meaning.  And  I'm  not 
very  clever  at  simulating  an  emotion  that  I 
don't  feel.  I  didn't  tell  you,  moreover,  because 
I  wanted  you  to  find  out  for  yourself.  I  thought 
you'd  do  so  here.  Yes — and  I  deliberately 
called  these  people  the  Paubas.  They  are  Pau- 
bas— a  branch  of  the  Pauba  tribe." 

"I  thought  you  were  to  help  me,"  he  grumbled. 
"You're  adding  to  the  mystery,  it  seems  to  me.'' 

"Not  at  all.  I'm  showing  you  the  trail.  You 
must  follow  it  yourself.  Knowing  the  country, 
I  see  bits  here  and  there  that  tell  me  where  to 
go  to  help  you  out.  Poche's  name  is  one  of 
them.  Keep  your  eyes  and  ears  open,  while  I'm 
steering  you  around." 

"All  right,"  he  agreed  after  a  pause.  "Lead 
on!" 

"Then  we'll  make  a  call  on  Chupurosa  Hatch- 
inguish,"  she  proposed.  "Chupurosa  means 
hummingbird,  as  you  doubtless  know,  since  it 


JESSAMY'S  HUMMINGBIRD        105 

is  Spanish.     And  if  my  Chupurosa  isn't  a  bird 
and  also  a  hummer,  I  never  hope  to  see  one." 

Oliver's  riding  outfit  created  a  sensation  as 
the  two  entered  the  village.  Faces  appeared  in 
doorways.  Squat,  dark  men,  their  black-felt 
hats  invariably  two  sizes  too  large,  came  from 
nowhere,  it  seemed,  to  gaze  silently.  Dogs 
barked.  Women  ceased  their  simple  activities 
and  chattered  noisily  to  one  another. 

Jessamy  reined  in  before  a  black  low  door 
presently,  and  left  the  saddle.  Oliver  followed 
her.  Through  a  profusion  of  morning-glories 
the  girl  led  the  way  to  the*  door  and  knocked. 

From  within  came  a  guttural  response,  and, 
with  a  smile  at  her  companion,  she  passed 
through  the  entrance. 

It  was  so  dark  within  that  for  a  little  Oliver, 
coming  from  the  bright  sunlight,  could  see 
almost  nothing.  Then  the  light  filtering  in 
through  the  vines  that  covered  the  hut  grew 
brighter. 

The  floor  was  of  earth,  beaten  brick-hard  by 
the  padding  of  tough  bare  feet.  In  the  centre 
was  a  fire-place — little  more  than  a  circle  of 
blackened  stones — from  which  the  smoke  was 
sucked  out  through  a  hole  in  the  roof,  presum- 
ably after  it  had  considerately  asphyxiated  the 
occupants  of  the  dwelling.  Red  earthenware 


and  beautifully  woven  baskets  represented  the 
household  utensils.  There  were  a  few  old  splint- 
bottom  chairs,  a  pack-saddle  hanging  on  the 
wall,  a  bed  of  green  willow  boughs  in  one  corner. 

These  simple  items  he  noticed  later,  and  one 
by  one.  For  the  time  being  his  interested  at- 
tention was  demanded  by  the  figure  that  sat 
humped  over  the  fire,  smoking  a  black  clay  pipe. 

Chupurosa  Hatchinguish,  headman  of  the 
Showut  Poche-dakas  and  a  prominent  figure  in 
the  fiestas  and  yearly  councils  of  the  Pauba 
tribes,  was  a  treasure  for  anthropologists. 
Years  beyond  the  ken  of  most  human  beings  had 
wrought  their  fabric  in  his  face.  It  was  cross- 
hatched,  tattooed,  pitted,  knurled,  and  wrinkled 
till  one  was  reminded  of  the  surface  of  some 
strange,  intricately  veined  leaf  killed  and  mum- 
mified by  the  frost.  From  this  crunched-leather 
frame  two  little  jet-black  eyes  blazed  out  with 
the  unquenched  fires  of  youth  and  all  the  wis- 
dom in  the  world.  A  black  felt  hat,  set  straight 
on  his  iron-grey  hair  and  almost  touching  ears 
and  eyebrows,  faded-blue  overalls,  and  a  dingy 
flannel  shirt  completed  his  garb,  as  he  wore 
nothing  on  his  feet. 

"Hello,  my  Hummingbird!"  Jessamy  cried 
merrily  in  the  Spanish  tongue. 

Chupurosa  seemed  not  to  be  the  stoic,  "How- 
Ugh!"  sort  of  Indian  with  which  fiction  has 


JESSAMY'S  HUMMINGBIRD        107 

made  the  world  familiar.  All  the  tragedy  and 
unsolvable  mystery  of  his  race  was  written  in 
his  face,  but  he  could  smile  and  laugh  and  talk, 
and  seemed  to  enjoy  life  hugely. 

His  leathery  face  now  parted  in  a  grin,  and, 
though  he  did  not  rise,  he  extended  a  rawhide 
hand  and  made  his  callers  welcome.  Then  he 
waved  them  to  seats. 

Much  as  any  other  human  being  would  do,  he 
politely  inquired  after  the  girl's  health  and  that 
of  her  family.  Asked  as  to  his  own,  he  shook 
his  head  and  made  a  rheumatic  grimace. 

"I've  brought  a  friend  to  see  you,  Chupurosa," 
said  Jessamy  at  last,  as,  for  some  reason  or 
other,  she  had  not  yet  exactly  introduced 
Oliver. 

Chupurosa  looked  at  the  man  inquiringly  and 
waited. 

"This  is  Oliver  Drew,"  said  the  girl  in  what 
Oliver  thought  were  unnatural,  rather  tense 
tones.  He  saw  Jessamy's  lips  part  slightly 
after  his  name,  and  that  she  was  watching  the 
old  man  intently. 

Chupurosa  nodded  in  an  exaggerated  way, 
and  extended  a  hand,  though  the  two  had  al- 
ready gone  through  the  handshake  formality. 
Oliver  arose  and  did  his  part  again,  then  stood 
a  bit  awkwardly  before  their  host. 

He  heard  a  half-sigh  escape  the  girl.     "Senor 


108      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

Drew  has  not  been  in  our  country  long,"  she  in- 
formed the  old  man.  "He  comes  from  the 
southern  part  of  the  state — from  San  Bernar- 
dino County." 

Again  the  exaggerated  nodding  on  the  part  of 
Chupurosa. 

Then  there  was  a  pause,  which  the  girl  at 
length  broke — 

"Did  you  catch  the  name,  Chupurosa? 
Oliver  Drew." 

Chupurosa  politely  but  haltingly  repeated  it, 
and  grinned  accommodatingly. 

Jessamy  tried  again.  "Do  you  know  a  piece 
of  land  down  in  Clinker  Creek  Canon  that  is 
called  the  Old  Ivison  Place,  Chupurosa?" 

His  nod  this  time  was  thoughtful. 

"Senor  Drew  now  owns  that,  and  lives  there," 
she  added. 

Both  Jessamy  and  Oliver  were  watching  him 
keenly.  It  seemed  to  Oliver  that  there  was  the 
faintest  suggestion  of  dilation  of  the  eye-pupils 
as  this  last  bit  of  information  was  imparted. 
Still,  it  may  have  meant  nothing. 

The  Indian  crumbled  natural-leaf  with  heel 
of  hand  and  palm,  and  refilled  his  terrible  pipe. 

"Any  friend  of  yours  is  welcome  to  this  coun- 
try and  to  my  hospitality,"  he  said. 

"Senor  Drew  rode  all  the  way  up  here  horse- 
back," the  girl  pushed  on.  "You  like  good 


109 

horses,  Chupurosa.  Senor  Drew  has  a  fine  one. 
His  name  is  Poche." 

For  the  fraction  of  a  second  the  match  that 
Oliver  had  handed  Chupurosa  stood  stationary 
on  its  trip  to  the  tobacco  in  his  pipe.  Chupu- 
rosa nodded  in  his  slow  way  again,  and  the 
match  completed  its  mission  and  fell  between 
the  blackened  stones. 

"And  you  like  saddles  and  bridles,  too,  I 
know.  You  should  see  Senor  Drew's  equip- 
ment, Chupurosa." 

Several  thoughtful  puffs.     Then — 

"Is  it  here,  Senorita?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl  breathlessly.  "Will  you 
go  out  and  look  at  it?" 

This  time  the  headman  puffed  for  nearly  a 
minute;  then  suddenly  he  rose  with  surprising 
briskness. 

"I  will  look  at  this  horse  called  Poche,"  he 
announced,  and  stalked  out  ahead  of  them. 

A  number  of  Indians,  old  and  young,  had 
gathered  about  the  horses  outside  the  little  gate. 
They  were  silent  but  for  a  low,  seemingly 
guarded  word  to  one  another  now  and  then. 
Every  black  eye  there  was  fixed  on  the  gorgeous 
saddle  and  bridle  of  Poche  in  awe  and  admira- 
tion. 

Then  came  Chupurosa,  tall,  dignified  as  the 
distant  mountain  peaks,  and  they  backed  off  in- 


110     THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

stantly.  At  his  heels  were  Oliver  and  the  girl, 
whose  cheeks  now  glowed  like  sunset  clouds  and 
whose  eyes  spoke  volumes. 

Thrice  in  absolute  silence  the  headman  walked 
round  the  horse.  Completing  the  third  trip,  he 
stepped  to  Poche's  head  and  stood  attentively 
looking  at  the  left-hand  concha  with  its  glisten- 
ing stone.  Then  Chupurosa  lifted  his  hands, 
slipped  the  chased-silver  keeper  that  held  the 
throatlatch  in  place,  and  let  the  throatlatch 
drop.  Both  hands  grasped  the  cheekstrap  near 
the  brow-band,  and  turned  this  part  of  the  bridle 
inside  out. 

Oliver  felt  a  slight  trembling,  it  was  all  so 
weird,  so  portentous.  He  almost  knew  that  the 
jet  eyes  were  searching  for  the  "B"  chiselled  into 
the  silver  on  the  inside  of  the  concha,  knew  posi- 
tively by  the  quick  dilation  of  the  pupils  when 
they  found  it. 

At  once  the  old  man  released  the  bridle  and 
readjusted  the  throatlatch.  He  turned  to  them 
then,  and  silently  motioned  toward  the  hut. 
Jessamy  cast  a  triumphant  glance  at  Oliver  as 
they  followed  him  inside. 

To  Oliver's  surprise  he  closed  the  door  after 
them.  Then,  though  it  was  now  so  dark  inside 
that  Oliver  could  scarce  see  at  all,  Chupurosa 
stood  directly  before  him  and  looked  him  up  and 
down. 


JESSAMY'S  HUMMINGBIRD         111 

He  spoke  now  in  the  melodious  Spanish. 

"Senor,"  he  asked,  "is  there  in  the  middle  of 
your  body,  on  the  left  side,  the  scar  of  a  wound 
like  a  man's  eye?" 

Oliver  caught  his  breath.  "Yes,"  he  replied. 
"I  brought  it  back  from  France.  A  bayonet 
wound." 

Up  and  down  went  the  iron-grey  head  of  the 
sage.  "I  have  never  seen  the  weapon  nor  the 
sort  of  wound  it  makes,"  he  informed  Oliver 
gravely.  "Take  off  your  shirt." 

"Oh,  Chupu-ro-sa !"  screamed  Jessamy  as  she 
threw  open  the  door  and  slammed  it  after  her. 


CHAPTER  XI 

CONCERNING    SPRINGS    AND    SHOWUT    POCHE-DAKA 

IT  was  evident  to  Oliver  Drew  that  Clinker 
Creek  was  lowering  fast,  as  Damon  Tamroy 
had  predicted  that  it  would  do.  He  feared 
that  it  would  go  entirely  dry  just  when  certain 
vegetables  would  need  it  most.  Again,  also 
following  Tamroy's  prophecy,  the  flow  from  his 
spring  proved  insufficient  to  keep  all  of  his 
plantings  alive,  even  though  he  had  impounded 
the  surplus  in  a  small  clay-lined  reservoir. 

He  stood  with  hands  on  hips  today,  frowning 
at  the  tinkling  stream  of  water  running  from 
the  rusty  length  of  pipe  into  the  reservoir. 

"There's  just  one  thing  to  do,"  he  remarked 
to  it,  "and  that's  to  see  if  I  can't  increase  your 
putter-putter.  I  want  to  write  an  article  on 
making  the  most  of  a  flow  of  spring  water,  any- 
way ;  and  I  guess  I'll  use  you  for  a  foundation." 

Whereupon  he  secured  pick  and  shovel  and 
sledge  and  set  about  removing  the  box  he  had  so 
carefully  set  in  the  ground  to  hold  his  domestic 
water. 

When  the  box  was  out  he  enlarged  the  hole, 
and,  when  the  water  had  cleared,  studied  the 

112 


CONCERNING  SPRINGS  113 

flow.  It  seeped  out  from  a  fissure  in  the  bed- 
rock— or  what  he  supposed  was  the  bedrock — 
and  it  seemed  a  difficult  matter  to  "get  at  it.'? 
However,  he  began  digging  above  the  point  of 
egress  in  the  resistant  blue  clay,  and  late  that 
afternoon  was  down  to  bedrock  again. 

And  now  when  he  had  washed  off  the  rock  he 
discovered  a  strange  thing.  This  was  that  the 
supposed  bedrock  was  not  bedrock  at  all,  but  a 
wall  of  large  stones  built  by  the  hand  of  man. 
Through  a  crevice  in  this  wall  the  water  seeped, 
and  when  he  had  gouged  out  the  puttylike  blue 
clay  the  flow  increased  fivefold. 

He  sat  down  and  puzzled  over  it,  expecting 
the  flow  to  return  to  normal  after  some  tiny  un- 
seen reservoir  had  been  drained  of  its  surplus. 
But  it  did  not  lessen,  and  had  not  lessened  when 
night  came. 

At  midnight,  thinking  about  it  in  bed  and  un- 
able to  sleep,  he  arose,  lighted  a  lantern,  and 
went  down  to  the  spring.  The  water  was  flow- 
ing just  the  same  as  when  he  had  left  it. 

He  was  not  surprised  to  find  the  work  of  hu- 
man hands  in  and  about  his  spring,  but  this 
wall  of  stones  was  highly  irregular.  It  ap- 
peared that,  instead  of  having  been  built  to  con- 
serve the  water,  it  was  designed  to  dam  up  the 
flow  entirely.  The  old  flow  was  merely  seepage 
through  the  wall. 


He  was  at  it  again  early  next  morning,  and 
soon  had  torn  down  the  wall  entirely  and 
thrown  out  the  stones.  At  least  five  times  as 
much  water  was  running  still.  He  recalled  that 
Damon  Tamroy  had  said  the  spring  had 
given  more  water  in  Tabor  Ivison's  day  than 
now. 

There  was  but  one  answer  to  the  puzzle.  For 
some  strange  reason  somebody  since  Tabor  Ivi- 
son's day  had  seen  fit  to  try  to  stop  the  flow 
from  the  spring  altogether.  But  who  would  go 
to  such  pains  to  do  this,  and  hide  the  results  of 
his  work,  as  these  had  been  hidden?  And, 
above  all,  why? 

It  is  useless  to  deny  that  Oliver  Drew  at  once 
thought  of  the  Poison  Oakers.  But  what  excuse 
could  they  produce  for  such  an  act?  Surely, 
with  the  creek  dry  and  the  American  Kiver  sev- 
eral miles  away,  they  would  encourage  the  flow 
of  water  everywhere  in  the  Clinker  Creek  Coun- 
try for  their  cattle  to  drink. 

It  was  beyond  him  then  and  he  gave  it  up. 
He  laid  more  pipe  and  covered  it  all  to  the  land 
level  again,  and  viewed  with  satisfaction  the  in- 
creased supply  of  water  for  the  dry  summer 
months  to  come.  And  it  was  not  until  a  week 
later  that  Jessamy  Selden  unconsciously  gave 
him  an  answer  to  the  question. 


CONCERNING  SPRINGS  115 

He  was  scrambling  up  the  hill  to  the  west  of 
the  cabin  that  day  to  another  bee  tree  that  he 
had  discovered,  when  he  heard  her  shrill  shout- 
ing down  below.  He  turned  and  saw  her  and 
the  white  mare  before  the  cabin,  and  the  girl 
was  looking  about  for  him. 

He  returned  her  shout,  and  stood  on  a  black- 
ened stump  in  the  chaparral,  waving  his  hat 
above  the  foliage. 

"I  get  you!"  she  shrilled  at  last.  "Stay 
there !  I'm  coming  up !" 

Fifteen  minutes  later,  panting,  now  on  hands 
and  knees,  now  crawling  flat,  she  drew  near 
to  him.  A  bird  can  go  through  California 
"locked"  chaparral  if  it  will  be  content  to  hop 
from  twig  to  twig,  but  the  ponderous  human  ani- 
mal must  emulate  Nebuchadnezzar  if  he  or  she 
would  penetrate  its  mysteries. 

"What  a  delightful  route  you  chose  for  your 
morning  crawl,"  she  puffed,  as  at  last  she  lay 
gasping  at  the  foot  of  the  stump  on  which  he 
sat  and  laughed  at  her. 

Oliver  lighted  a  cigarette  and  inhaled  indo- 
lently as  he  watched  her  lying  there  with  heav- 
ing breast,  her  arms  thrown  wide.  She  did 
everything  as  naturally  as  does  a  child.  She 
wore  fringed  leather  chaps  today,  and  remarked, 
when  she  sat  up  and  dusted  the  trash  from  her 


116      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

hair,  that  she  was  glad  she  had  done  so  since  he 
had  made  her  come  crawling  to  his  feet. 

"And  that  reminds  me  of  something  that  I've 
decided  to  ask  you,"  she  added.  "Has  it  oc- 
curred to  you  that  I  am  throwing  myself  at 
you?"  She  looked  straight  into  his  face  as  she 
put  the  naive  question  to  him. 

"Why  do  you  ask  that?"  he  countered,  eyes  on 
the  tip  of  his  cigarette. 

"I'll  tell  you  why  when  you've  answered." 

"Then  of  course  not." 

"I  suppose  I  am  SL  bit  crude,"  she  mused.  "At 
least  it  must  look  that  way  to  the  natives  here- 
about. I  was  fairly  confident,  though,  that  you 
wouldn't  think  me  unmaidenly.  I  sought  you 
out  deliberately.  I  was  lonely  and  wanted  a 
friend.  I  had  heard  that  you  were  a  Univer- 
sity man.  You  told  Mr.  Tamroy,  you  know. 
It's  perfectly  proper  deliberately  to  try  and 
make  a  friend  of  a  person,  isn't  it? — if  you  think 
both  of  you  may  be  benefited.  And  does  it  make 
a  great  deal  of  difference  if  the  subject  chances 
to  be  of  the  other  sex?" 

"I'm  more  than  satisfied,  so  far  as  I  come  in 
on  the  deal,"  Oliver  assured  her. 

"I  thank  you,  sir.  And  now  I've  been  ac- 
cused to  my  face  of  throwing  myself  at  you — 
which  expression  means  a  lot  and  which  you 
doubtless  fully  understand." 


CONCERNING  SPRINGS  117 

"Who  is  your  accuser?" 

"The  author  of  'Jessamy,  My  Sweetheart.' ' 

"Digger  Foss,  eh?" 

She  closed  both  eyes  tightly  and  bobbed  her 
head  up  and  down  several  times,  then  opened 
her  eyes.  "He's  a  free  man  again — tried  and  ac- 
quitted." 

"No !" 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  how  it  would  be?" 

He  puffed  his  cigarette  meditatively.  "Doesn't 
it  strike  you  as  strange  that  you  and  I  were  not 
subpoenaed  as  witnesses?" 

"I've  been  expecting  that  from  you.  No,  sir 
— it  doesn't.  Digger's  counsel  didn't  want  you 
and  me  as  witnesses." 

"But  the  prosecuting  attorney." 

"He  didn't  want  us  either." 

"Then  there's  corruption." 

"If  I  could  think  of  a  worse  word  than  cor- 
ruption I'd  correct  you,  so  I'll  let  that  stand. 
Digger  Foss  is  Old  Man  Selden's  right  hand; 
and  Old  Man  Selden  is  Pythias  to  the  prosecut- 
ing attorney  of  this  man's  county." 

Oliver's  eyes  widened. 

"Elmer  Standard  is  the  gentleman  in  ques- 
tion. What  connection  there  can  be  between 
him  and  Adam  Selden  is  too  many  for  me;  but 
Selden  goes  to  see  him  whenever  he  rides  to  the 
county  seat.  Only  the  right  witnesses  were  al- 


118      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

lowed  to  take  the  stand,  you  may  be  confident. 
I  knew  the  halfbreed's  acquittal  was  a  fore- 
gone conclusion  before  the  smoke  from  his  gat 
had  cleared." 

Both  were  silent  for  a  time,  then  she  said: 
"Elmer  Standard  runs  things  down  at  the  county 
seat.  I've  heard  that  he  allows  open  gambling, 
and  that  he  personally  finances  three  saloons 
and  several  gaming  places." 

"But  there  are  no  saloons  now." 

"Indeed!"  she  said  with  mock  innocence.  "I 
didn't  know.  I  never  have  frequented  them,  so 
you'll  overlook  my  ignorance.  Anyway,  Digger 
Foss  is  as  free  as  the  day  he  was  born ;  and  Henry 
Dodd,  the  man  he  murdered,  lies  in  the  little 
cemetery  in  the  pines  near  Half  moon  Flat. 
But  there's  another  piece  of  news:  Adam  Sel- 
den  has — " 

"Pardon  my  interrupting  you,"  he  put  in, 
"but  you  haven't  finished  with  Digger  Foss." 

"Oh,  that!  Well,  I  met  him  on  the  trail  be- 
tween Clinker  Creek  and  the  American  yester- 
day. He  accused  me  of  being  untrue  to  him 
while  he  was  in  jail." 

"Yes?" 

"I  admitted  my  guilt.  Never  having  had  the 
slightest  inclination  to  be  true  to  him,  I  told 
him,  it  naturally  followed  that  I  was  untrue  to 
him — and  wasn't  it  a  glorious  day?  How  on 


CONCERNING  SPRINGS  119 

earth  the  boy  ever  got  the  idea  that  he  has  the 
right  to  consider  me  in  the  light  that  he  does  is 
beyond  me.  I  don't  scold  him,  and  I  don't  send 
him  packing — nor  do  I  give  him  the  least  encour- 
agement. I  simply  treat  him  civilly  when  he  ap- 
proaches me  on  a  commonplace  matter,  and  ig- 
nore him  when  he  tries  to  get  funny.  And  he's 
probably  so  dense  that  all  this  encourages  him. 
How  can  he  be  so  stupid !  I  haven't  been  supe- 
rior enough  with  him — but  I  hate  to  be  superior, 
even  to  a  halfbi-eed.  And  he's  quarter  China- 
man. Heavens,  what  am  I  coming  to !" 

"How  did  the  meeting  end?"  queried  Oliver. 

"Well,  we  both  went  a  little  further  this  time 
than  ever  before.  He  attempted  to  kiss  me,  and 
I  attempted  to  cut  his  face  open  with  my  quirt. 
Both  of  us  missed  by  about  six  inches,  I'm 
thankful  to  say.  And  the  grand  climax  took 
the  form  of  a  dire  threat  against  you.  By  the 
way,  I've  never  seen  you  pack  a  gun,  Mr.  Drew." 

He  shrugged.  "I  used  to  down  on  the  cow 
ranch  in  San  Bernardino  County,  but  I  think  I 
grew  up  over  in  France." 

"You  have  one,  of  course." 

"Yes— a  'forty-five." 

"Can  you  handle  a  gun  fairly  well?" 

"I  know  which  end  to  look  into  to  see  if  it's 
loaded." 

"Can  you  ^pin  a  dollar  in  air  with  your  left 


120       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

hand,  draw,  and  hit  it  before  it  strikes  the 
ground?'' 

"Aw,  let's  be  sensible!"  he  cried.  "I'm  after 
another  colony  of  bees.  Come  on  up  and  look 
at  'em." 

"Sit  still,"  she  ordered.  "Can  you  do  what  I 
asked  about?" 

"I  don't  know — I've  never  tried." 

"Digger  Foss  can,"  she  claimed. 

"Well,  that's  shooting." 

"It  is.  I'd  strap  that  gun  on  if  I  were  you 
and  practice  up  a  bit." 

"Cartridges  are  too  high-priced,"  he  laughed. 
"What's  the  rest  of  the  news?" 

"The  store  up  at  Cliffbert,  about  fourteen 
miles  from  here  and  off  the  railroad,  was  broken 
into  three  days  ago  and  robbed  of  cutlery,  revol- 
vers, and  other  things  to  the  tune  of  several  hun- 
dred dollars." 

"M'm-m !    Do  they  have  any  idea  who  did  it?" 

"Oh,  yes.     The  Poison  Oakers." 

"They  know  it?" 

"Of  course — everybody  knows  it.  But  it 
can't  be  proved.  It's  nothing  new." 

"I  didn't  know  the  gang  ever  went  to  such  a 
limit." 

"Humph !"  she  sniffed  significantly.  "And  the 
next  piece  of  news  is  that  Sulphur  Spring  has 


CONCERNING  SPRINGS  121 

gone  dry  for  the  first  time  in  many  years.  And 
here  it's  only  May !" 

"Where  is  Sulphur  Spring?" 

"About  a  mile  below  your  south  line,  in  this 
canon.  I  heard  Old  Man  Selden  complaining 
about  it  last  night,  and  thought  I'd  ride  around 
that  way  this  morning.  It's  as  he  said — en- 
tirely dry,  so  far  as  new  water  running  into  the 
basin  is  concerned." 

"Well,"  said  Oliver,  "my  piece  of  news  is  just 
the  opposite  of  that.  My  spring  is  running  a 
stream  five  times  as  large  as  heretofore — " 

She  straightened.  "What  caused  that?"  she 
demanded  quickly. 

He  explained  in  detail. 

"So!"  she  murmured.  "So!  I  understand. 
Listen:  I  have  heard  the  menfolks  at  the  ranch 
say  that  all  these  canon  springs  are  connected. 
That  is,  they  all  are  outbreaks  from  one  large 
vein  that  follows  the  canon.  If  you  shut  off  one, 
then,  you  may  increase  the  flow  of  the  next  one 
below  it.  And  if  you  open  one  up  and  increase 
its  output,  the  next  below  it  may  go  entirely  dry. 
The  flow  from  yours  has  been  cut  off  in  time 
gone  by  to  increase  the  flow  of  Sulphur  Spring. 
And  now  that  you've  taken  away  the  obstruc- 
tion, your  spring  gets  all  the  water,  while  Sul- 
phur Spring  gets  none." 


122      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"I  believe  you're  right,"  asserted  Oliver. 
"And  do  you  think  it  might  have  been  the  Poison 
Oakers  who  closed  my  spring  to  increase  the 
flow  down  there?" 

"Undoubtedly." 

"But  why?  They  were  running  cows  on  my 
land,  too,  before  I  came.  Wouldn't  it  be  handier 
to  have  a  good  flow  of  water  in  both  places?" 

"No  doubt  of  that,"  she  answered.  "And  I 
can't  enlighten  you,  I'm  sorry  to  say.  All  I 
know  is  that  Old  Man  Selden  is  hopping  mad — 
angrier  than  the  situation  seems  to  call  for,  as 
springs  are  by  no  means  scarce  in  Clinker 
Canon." 

Jessamy's  disclosures  had  ended  now,  so  they 
scrambled  on  up  the  hill  toward  the  bee  tree. 

The  colony  had  settled  in  a  dead  hollow  white- 
oak.  The  tree  had  been  broken  off  close  to  the 
ground  by  high  winds  after  the  colony  had 
taken  up  residence  therein.  The  hole  by  which 
they  made  entrance  to  the  hollow  trunk,  how- 
ever, was  left  uppermost  after  the  fall,  and  ap- 
parently the  little  zealots  had  not  been  seriously 
disturbed. 

Anyway,  here  they  were  still  winging  their 
way  to  and  from  the  prostrate  tree,  the  sentries 
keeping  watch  at  the  entrance  to  their  increas- 
ing store  of  honey. 

Oliver  had  found  the  tree  two  weeks  before, 


CONCERNING  SPRINGS  123 

purely  by  accident.  At  that  time  the  hole  at 
which  the  workers  entered  had  been  unob- 
structed. Now,  though,  tall  weeds  had  grown 
up  about  the  tree,  making  a  screen  before  the 
hole  and  preventing  the  nectar-laden  insects 
from  entering  readily. 

"This  won't  do  at-all-at-all,"  he  said  to  Jes- 
samy,  as  she  took  her  seat  on  a  limb  of  the  bee 
tree.  "There  must  be  nothing  to  obstruct  them 
in  entering,  for  sometimes  they  drop  with  thier 
loads  when  they  have  difficulty  in  winging  di- 
rectly in,  and  can't  get  up  again.' 

"Uh-huh,"  she  concurred. 

She  had  unlaid  one  of  her  black  braids  and 
was  replaiting  it  again  after  the  havoc  wrought 
by  the  prickly  bushes. 

Oliver  lighted  his  bee-smoker  and  sent  several 
soft  puffs  into  the  hole  to  quiet  the  bees.  Then 
without  gloves  or  veil,  which  the  experienced 
beeman  seldom  uses,  he  laid  hold  of  the  tall 
weeds  and  began  uprooting  them.  Thus  en- 
gaged, he  kneeled  down  and  reached  under  the 
tree  trunk  to  get  at  the  roots  of  certain  obsti- 
nate plants;  and  in  that  instant  he  felt  a  sharp 
sting  in  the  fleshy  part  of  his  wrist. 

"Ouch !  Holy  Moses !"  he  croaked.  "I  didn't 
expect  to  find  a  bee  under  there!" 

"Get  stung?" 

"Did  I!    Mother  of  Mike!    I've  been  stung 


124       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

many  times,  but  that  lady  must  have  been 
the  grandmother  of — Why,  I'm  getting  sick — 
dizzy !— " 

He  came  to  a  pause,  swayed  on  his  knees,  and 
closed  his  eyes.  Then  came  that  heart-chilling 
sound  which,  once  heard,  will  never  be  forgot- 
ten, and  will  ever  bring  cold  terror  to  mankind 
— the  rattlebone  whir-r-r-r-r  of  the  diamond- 
back  rattlesnake. 

Oliver  caught  himself,  licked  dry  lips,  and  was 
gazing  in  horror  at  two  bleeding,  jagged  inci- 
sions in  his  wrist.  The  girl,  with  a  scream  of 
comprehension,  darted  toward  him.  He  bal- 
anced himself  and  smiled  grimly  as  she  grabbed 
his  arm  with  shaking  hands. 

"Got  me,"  he  said,  "the  son-of -a-gun !  And 
I'd  have  stuck  my  hand  right  back  for  another 
dose  if  he  hadn't  rattled." 

Jessamy  grabbed  him  by  both  shoulders  and 
tried  to  force  him  to  the  ground. 

"Sit  down  and  keep  quiet!"  she  ordered, 
sternly,  her  nerves  now  firm  and  steady,  her 
face  white  and  determined.  "No,  not  that 
way !" 

She  grasped  him  under  the  arms  and  with  the 
strength  of  a  young  Amazon  slued  him  about  as 
if  he  had  been  a  sack  of  flour. 

Deftly  she  bound  his  handkerchief  about  Ms 


CONCERNING  SPRINGS  125 

arm,  drawing  it  taut  with  all  her  strength. 
Something  found  its  way  into  his  left  hand. 

"Drink  that!"  she  commanded.  "All  of  it. 
Pour  it  down !" 

Then  her  lips  sought  the  flaming  wound;  and 
she  clamped  her  white  teeth  in  his  flesh  and  be- 
gan sucking  out  the  poison. 

At  intervals  she  raised  her  head  for  breath 
and  to  spit  out  the  deadly  fluid. 

"Drink!"  she  would  urge  then.  "And  don't 
worry.  Not  a  chance  in  the  world  of  your  be- 
ing any  the  worse  after  I  get  through  with  you." 

Oliver  obeyed  her  without  question,  taking 
great  swallows  from  the  flask  of  fiery  liquor  and 
closing  his  eyes  after  each.  His  senses  swam 
and  he  felt  weak  and  delirious,  though  he  could 
not  tell  whether  this  last  was  because  of  the  poi- 
son or  the  liquor  he  had  consumed. 

At  last  Jessamy  leaned  back  and  fumbled  in 
a  pocket  of  her  chaps.  She  produced  a  tiny 
round  box,  from  which  she  took  a  bottle  of  dry 
permanganate  of  potash  and  a  small  lancet. 
With  the  keen  instrument  she  hacked  a  deep  x 
in  his  arm,  just  over  the  wound.  Then  she  wet 
the  red  powder  with  saliva  and  worked  a  paste 
into  the  cuts  with  the  lancet. 

This  done,  she  sat  back  and  regarded  her  pa- 
tient complacently. 


126      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Just  take  it  easy,"  she  counselled.  "And, 
whatever  you  do,  don't  worry.  You  won't  know 
you  were  bitten  in  an  hour.  Sip  that  whisky 
now  and  then.  It  won't  kill  the  poison,  as  some 
folks  seem  to  believe,  but  it  will  make  you  light- 
hearted  and  you'll  forget  to  worry.  That's  the 
part  it  plays  in  a  case  like  this.  Now  if  I  can 
trust  you  to  keep  quiet  and  serene,  I'll  seek  re- 
venge." 

He  nodded  weakly. 

She  arose,  and  presently  again  came  that  sick- 
ening whir-r-r-r-r-r  miscalled  a  rattle,  followed 
immediately  by  a  vicious  thud-thud-thud. 

"There,  you  horried  creature!"  he  heard  in  a 
low,  triumphant  tone.  "You  thought  I  was 
afraid  of  you,  did  you?  Bring  total  collapse  on 
all  your  fictitious  traditions  and  bite  before 
you  rattle,  will  you!  Requiescat  in  pace,  Mr. 
Showut  Poche-daka!" 

Half  an  hour  afterward  Oliver  Drew  was  on 
his  feet,  but  he  staggered  drunkenly.  To  this 
day  he  is  not  just  sure  whether  he  was  intoxi- 
cated or  raving  from  the  effects  of  the  snakebite. 
Anyway,  as  Jessamy  took  hold  of  him  to  steady 
him,  his  reason  left  him,  and  he  swept  her  into 
his  arms  and  kissed  her  lips  time  and  again, 
though  she  struggled  valiantly  to  free  herself. 

Ultimately  she  ducked  under  his  arms  and 


CONCERNING  SPRINGS  127 

sprang  away  from  him  backward,  her  face  crim- 
son, her  bosom  heaving. 

"Sit  down  again!"  she  ordered  chokingly. 
"Shame  on  you,  to  take  advantage  of  me  like 
that!" 

"Won't  sit  down !"  he  babbled,  reaching  about 
for  her  blindly.  "I  love  you  an'  I'm  gonta  have 
you!" 

"You're  out  of  your  head!  Sit  down  again! 
Please,  now."  Her  tone  changed  to  a  soothing 
note.  "You're — I'm  afraid  you're  drunk." 

He  was  groping  for  her,  staggering  toward  a 
threatening  outcropping  of  rock.  With  a  rapid 
leap  she  closed  in  on  him  unexpectedly,  heaved 
desperately  to  the  right  and  left,  and  threw  him 
flat  on  his  back.  Then  she  scrambled  on  top  of 
his  knees  as  he  strove  to  rise  again. 

"Now,  looky-here,  mister,"  she  warned, 
"you've  gone  just  about  far  enough!  In  a  sec- 
ond I'll  get  that  bee-smoker  and  put  you  out  of 
business.  Please — please,  now,  be  good !" 

He  seemed  partially  stunned  by  the  fall,  for 
he  lay  now  without  a  move,  eyes  closed,  his  mind 
wandering  dreamily.  And  thus  he  lay  for  half 
an  hour  longer,  when  he  suddenly  raised  his 
head  and  looked  at  her,  still  propped  up  on  his 
knees,  with  eyes  that  were  sane. 

"Golly!"  he  breathed. 


128      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Golly  is  right,"  she  agreed  drolly.  "Were 
you  drunk  or  crazy?" 

"Both,  I  guess.  I'm — mighty  sorry."  His 
face  was  red  as  fire. 

"Do  you  wish  to  get  up?" 

"If  you  please." 

He  stood  on  his  feet.  He  was  still  weak  and 
pale  and  dizzy. 

"Heavens!  That  liquor!"  he  panted.  "What 
is  it?  Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"At  home.  Old  Adam  gave  me  the  flask  over 
a  year  ago.  It's  only  whisky.  I  always  carry 
a  flask  for  just  such  an  emergency  as  this.  And 
I  never  go  a  step  out  of  the  house  in  the  summer 
without  my  snakebite  kit.  Nobody  ought  to  in 
the  West." 

He  shook  his  head.  "That's  not  whisky,"  he 
said.  "I'm  not  exactly  a  stranger  to  the  taste  of 
whisky.  That's  brimstone !" 

"I  was  told  it  was  whisky,"  she  replied.  "I 
know  nothing  about  whisky.  I've  never  even 
tasted  it." 

He  held  the  flask  to  the  sun,  but  it  was  leather- 
covered  and  no  light  shone  through.  He  un- 
screwed the  metal  cap  and  poured  some  of  the 
liquor  into  it. 

It  was  colourless  as  water. 

"Moonshine!"  he  cried.     "And  I  know 'now 


CONCERNING  SPRINGS  129 

why  the  flow  from  my  spring  was  cut  off.    A 
still  calls  for  running  water!" 

"You  may  be  right,"  she  said  without  excite- 
ment. "You  will  remember  that  I  told  you 
there  is  another  reason  besides  Selden's  covet- 
ousness  of  your  grass  land  why  you  are  wanted 
out  of  the  Clinker  Creek  Country." 


THE  POISON   OAKERS  RIDE 

A  RED-HEADED,  red-breasted  male  lin- 
net sat  on  the  topmost  branch  of  the  old, 
gnarled  liveoak  near  Oliver's  window 
and  tried  to  burst  his  throat  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  Oliver's  typewriter.  When  the  keys 
ceased  their  clicking  the  singer  finished  a  bar 
and  waited,  till  once  more  the  dicelike  rattle 
encouraged  him  to  another  ecstatic  burst  of 
melody. 

"Well,  I  like  to  be  accommodating,"  remarked 
Oliver,  leaning  back  from  his  machine,  "but  I 
can't  accompany  you  all  day;  and  it  happens 
that  I'm  through  right  now." 

He  surveyed  the  last  typewritten  sheet  of  his 
manuscript  on  the  cleaning  of  springs  for  the 
enlarging  of  their  flow;  but,  the  article  com- 
pleted, his  mind  was  no  longer  engrossed  by  it. 

Other  and  bigger  matters  claimed  his 
thoughts,  and  he  sat  in  the  soft  spring  air  won- 
dering about  old  Chupurosa  Hatchinguish 
and  his  strange  behaviour  on  seeing  the  gem- 
mounted  conchas  stamped  with  the  letter  B. 

130 


THE  POISON  OAKERS  RIDE        131 

When  Oliver  had  stripped  off  his  shirt  in  the 
hut  that  day  the  scar  that  a  German  bayonet  had 
left  in  his  side  had  carefully  been  examined  by 
the  ancient  chief.  Oliver  fancied  there  had  been 
a  strange  new  look  in  his  inscrutable  eyes  as  he 
silently  motioned  for  him  to  put  on  his  shirt 
again.  He  had  made  no  comment  whatever, 
though,  and  said  nothing  at  all  until  the  young 
man  had  finished  dressing.  Then  he  had  stepped 
to  the  door  and  opened  it,  rather  impolitely 
suggesting  that  his  guest's  presence  in  the  hut 
was  no  longer  necessary.  As  Oliver  passed  out 
he  had  spoken : 

"When  next  the  moon  is  full,"  he  said,  "the 
Showut  Poche-dakas  will  observe  the  Fiesta  de 
Santa  Maria  de  Refugio,  as  taught  them  years 
ago  by  the  padres  who  came  from  Spain.  Then 
will  the  Showut  Poche-dakas  dance  the  fire 
dance,  which  is  according  to  the  laws  laid  down 
by  the  wise  men  of  their  ancestors.  Ride  here 
to  the  Fiesta  de  Santa  Maria  de  Refugio  on  the 
first  night  that  the  moon  is  full.  Adios,  amlgo!" 

That  was  all;  and  Oliver  had  passed  out  into 
the  bright  sunlight  and  found  Jessamy  Selden. 

The  two  had  talked  over  the  circumstances 
often  since  that  day,  but  neither  could  throw 
any  light  on  the  matter.  But  the  first  night  of 
the  full  moon  was  not  far  distant  now,  and 
Oliver  and  the  girl  were  awaiting  it  impatiently. 


132       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

Oliver  felt  that  at  the  fiesta  he  would  in  some 
way  gain  an  inkling  of  the  mysterious  question 
that  had  puzzled  his  father  for  thirty  years, 
and  which  eventually  had  brought  his  son  into 
this  country  to  find  out  whether  its  answer  was 
Yes  or  No. 

Oliver  tilted  back  his  chair  and  lighted  his 
briar  pipe.  Out  in  the  liveoak  tree  the  linnet 
waited,  head  on  one  side,  chirping  plaintively 
occasionally,  for  the  renewed  clicking  of  the 
typewriter  keys.  But  Oliver's  thoughts  were 
far  from  his  work. 

That  burning,  colourless  liquor  that  had  so 
fiercely  fired  his  brain  was  undoubtedly  moon- 
shine— and  redistilled  at  that,  no  doubt.  Jes- 
samy  had  told  him  further  that  she  had  not  so 
much  as  unscrewed  the  cap  since  old  Adam  had 
given  her  the  flask,  at  her  request,  and  had  had 
no  idea  that  the  flask  had  not  contained  amber- 
coloured  whisky.  Was  this  in  reality  the  rea- 
son why  the  Poison  Oakers  wished  him  to  be 
gone?  Had  they  been  distilling  moonshine 
whisky  down  at  Sulphur  Spring  to  supply  the 
blind  pigs  controlled  by  the  prosecuting  at- 
torney at  the  county  seat?  And  had  his  inad- 
vertent shutting  off  of  Sulphur  Spring's  supply 
of  water  stopped  their  illicit  activities?  They 
had  known,  perhaps,  that  eventually  he  would 
discover  that  his  own  spring  had  been  choked 


THE  POISON  OAKERS  RIDE        133 

by  some  one  and  would  rectify  the  condition. 
Whereupon  Sulphur  Spring  would  cease  to  flow 
and  automatically  cut  off  one  of  their  sources  of 
revenue.  Oliver  decided  to  look  for  Sulphur 
Spring  at  his  earliest  opportunity. 

His  brows  came  together  as  he  recalled  the 
episode  on  the  hill,  when  either  the  fiery  raw 
liquor  or  the  poison  from  the  diamond-back's 
fangs — or  both — had  deprived  him  of  his  senses. 

He  remembered  perfectly  what  he  had  said — 
what  he  had  done.  He  had  heard  sometime  that 
a  man  always  tells  the  truth  when  he  is  drunk. 
But  had  he  been  drunk,  or  rabid  from  the  hypo- 
dermic injections  of  Showut  Poche-daka?  Or, 
again — both?  One  thing  he  knew — that  he 
thrilled  yet  at  remembrance  of  those  satin  lips 
which  he  had  pressed  again  and  again. 

Had  he  told  the  truth?  Had  he  said  that  day 
what  he  would  not  have  revealed  for  anything — 
at  that  time? 

Hia  brows  contracted  more  and  more,  and  a 
grim  smile  twitched  his  lips.  His  teeth  gripped 
the  amber  stem  of  his  pipe.  Had  he  told  the 
truth? 

He  rose  suddenly  and  went  through  a  boyish 
practice  that  had  clung  to  him  to  the  years  of 
his  young  manhood.  He  stalked  to  the  cheap 
rectangular  mirror  on  the  wall  and  gazed  at  his 
wavy  reflection  in  the  flawed  glass.  Blue  eye 


134       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

into  blue  eye  he  gazed,  and  once  more  asked  the 
question : 

"Did  I  tell  the  truth  when  I  said  I  loved  her?" 

His  eyes  answered  him.  He  knew  that  he  had 
told  the  truth. 

Then  if  this  was  true — and  he  knew  it  to  be 
true — what  of  the  halfbreed,  Digger  Foss?  He 
remembered  a  gaunt  man,  stricken  to  his  death, 
reeling  against  the  legs  of  a  snorting  white  mare 
and  clutching  at  them  blindly  for  support — re- 
membered the  gloating  grin  of  the  mounted  man, 
the  muzzle  of  whose  gun  followed  the  movements 
of  his  wounded  enemy  as  a  cobra's  head  sways 
back  and  forth  to  the  charmer's  music — remem- 
bered the  cruel  insolence  of  the  Mongolic  eyes, 
mere  slits. 

He  swung  about  suddenly  from  the  mirror 
and  caught  sight  of  a  knothole  in  the  cabin 
wall,  which  so  far  he  had  neglected  to  patch  with 
tin.  He  noted  it  as  he  swung  about  and  dived 
at  the  pillow  on  his  bed.  He  hurled  the  pillow 
one  side,  swept  up  the  ivory-handled  '45  that 
lay  there,  wheeled,  and  fired  at  the  knothole. 
There  had  been  no  appreciable  pause  between 
his  grasping  of  the  weapon  and  the  trigger  pull, 
yet  he  saw  no  bullet  hole  in  the  cabin  boards 
when  the  smoke  had  cleared  away. 

He  chuckled  grimly.     "I  might  get  out  my 


THE  POISON  OAKERS  RIDE        135 

army  medals  for  markmanship  and  pin  'em  on 
my  breast  for  a  target,"  he  said. 

Then  to  his  vast  confusion  there  came  a  voice 
from  the  front  of  the  house. 

"Ain't  committed  soothin'  syrup,  have  ye?'' 
it  boomed. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  deep-lunged 
tones.  It  was  Old  Man  Selden  who  had  called 
to  him. 

Oliver  tossed  the  gun  on  the  bed  and  walked 
through  to  the  front  door,  which  always  stood 
open  these  days,  inviting  the  countless  little  liz- 
ards that  hisi  invasion  of  the  place  had  not 
disturbed  to  enter  and  make  themselves  at  home. 

The  gaunt  old  boss  of  the  Clinker  Creek 
Country  stood,  with  chap-protected  legs  wide 
apart,  on  Oliver's  little  porch.  His  broad- 
brimmed  black  hat  was  set  at  an  angle  on  his 
iron-grey  hair,  and  his  cold  blue  eyes  were  pierc- 
ing and  direct,  as  always.  In  his  hands  he  held 
the  reins  of  his  horse's  bridle.  Back  of  the  grey 
seven  men  lounged  in  their  saddles,  grinning  at 
the  old  man's  sally.  Digger  Foss  was  not 
among  the  number. 

"How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Selden,"  said  Oliver  in  cor- 
dial tones,  thrusting  forth  a  strong  brown  hand. 

Selden  did  not  accept  the  hand,  and  made  no 
effort  to  pretend  that  he  had  not  noticed  it. 


136       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

Oliver  quickly  withdrew  it,  and  two  little  lumps 
showed  over  the  hinges  of  his  jaws. 

He  changed  his  tone  immediately.  "Well, 
what  can  I  do  for  you  gentlemen?"  he  inquired 
brusquely. 

"We  was  ridin'  through  an'  thought  we  heard 
a  shot,"  said  Selden.  "So  I  dropped  off  to  see 
if  ye  wasn't  hurt." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  Oliver  returned,  "but 
you  must  have  been  dismounted  when  I  fired. 
This  being  the  case,  you  already  had  decided  to 
call  on  me.  So,  once  more,  how  can  I  be  of  serv- 
ice to  you?" 

The  grins  of  the  men  who  rode  with  Adam  Sel- 
den disappeared.  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
businesslike  hostility  of  Oliver's  attitude. 

"Peeved  about  somethin'  this  mornin',"  one  of 
them  drawled  to  the  rider  whose  knee  pressed 
his. 

Oliver  looked  straight  at  Old  Man  Selden,  and 
to  him  he  spoke. 

"I  am  not  peeved  about  anything,"  he  said. 
"But  when  a  man  comes  to  my  door,  and  I  come 
and  offer  him  my  hand,  and  he  ignores  it,  my  in- 
ference is  that  the  call  isn't  a  friendly  one.  So 
if  you  have  any  business  to  transact  with  me, 
let's  get  it  off  our  chests." 

Oliver  noted  with  a  certain  amount  of  satis- 
faction the  quick,  surprised  looks  that  were 


THE  POISON  OAKERS  RIDE        137 

flashed  among  the  Poison  Oakers.  Apparently 
they  had  met  a  tougher  customer  than  they  had 
expected. 

All  this  time  the  cold  blue  eyes  of  Adam  Sel- 
den  had  been  looking  over  the  pitted  Bourbon 
nose  at  Oliver.  Selden's  tones  were  unruffled  as 
he  said: 

"Thought  maybe  the  poison  oak  had  got  too 
many  for  ye,  an'  ye'd  shot  yerself." 

"I  don't  care  to  listen  to  subtle  threats," 
Oliver  returned  promptly.  "Poison  oak  does 
not  trouble  me  at  all — neither  the  vegetable  var- 
iety nor  the  other  variety.  I'm  never  in  favour 
of  bandying  words.  If  I  have  anything  to  say 
I  try  to  say  it  in  the  best  American-English  at 
my  command.  So  I'll  make  no  pretence,  Mr. 
Selden,  that  I  have  not  heard  you  don't  want 
me  here  in  the  canon.  And  I'll  add  that  I  am 
here,  on  my  own  land,  and  intend  to  do  my  best 
to  remain  till  I  see  fit  to  leave." 

Selden's  craggy  brows  came  down,  and  the 
scrutiny  that  he  gave  the  young  man  was  not 
without  an  element  of  admiration.  No  anger 
showed  in  his  voice  as  he  said: 

"Just  so !  Just  so !  I  wanted  to  tell  ye  that 
I  been  down  to  the  recorder's  office  and  up  to  see 
Nancy  Fleet,  my  wife's  sister.  Seems  that 
you're  right  about  this  prop'ty  standin'  in  your 
name  an'  all;  but  I  thought,  so  long's  we  was 


138       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

ridin'  along  this  way,  I'd  drop  off  an'  have  a 
word  with  ye." 

"I'm  waiting  to  hear  it." 

"No  use  gettin'  riled,  now,  because — " 

"If  you  had  accepted  my  hand  you'd  not  find 
me  adopting  the  tone  that  I  have." 

"Just  so!"  Selden  drawled.  "Well,  then,  I'll 
accept  her  now — if  I  ain't  too  bold." 

"You  will  not,"  clicked  Oliver.  "Will  you 
please  state  your  business  and  ride  on?" 

"Friendly  cuss,  ain't  he,  Dad?"  remarked  one 
of  the  Selden  boys — which  one  Oliver  did  not 
know. 

"You  close  yer  face!"  admonished  Selden 
smoothly,  in  his  deep  bass.  "Well,  Mr.  Drew,  if 
ye  want  to  stay  here  an'  starve  to  death,  that's 
none  o'  my  concern.  And  if  ye  got  money  to  live 
on  comin'  from  somewheres  else,  that's  none  o' 
my  concern  either.  But  when  ye  stop  the  run 
o'  water  from  a  spring  that  I'm  dependin'  on  to 
water  my  critters  in  dry  months,  it  is  my  con- 
cern— an'  that's  why  I  dropped  off  for  a  word 
with  ye." 

"How  do  you  know  I  have  done  that?"  Oliver 
asked. 

"Well,  'tain't  likely  that  a  spring  like  Sulphur 
Spring  would  go  dry  the  last  o'  May.  Most  o' 
these  springs  along  here  are  fed  from  the  same 
vein.  You  move  in,  and  Sulphur  Spring  goes 


THE  POISON  OAKERS  RIDE        139 

dry.  So  that's  what  I  dropped  off  to  talk  to  ye 
about.  Just  so!" 

"I  suppose,"  said  Oliver,  "that  the  work  I  did 
on  my  spring  has  in  reality  stopped  the  flow  of 
Sulphur  Spring.  But — " 

"Ye  do?  What  makes  ye  suppose  so? — if  I 
ain't  too  bold  in  askin'." 

Oliver's  lips  straightened.  Plainly  Selden 
suspected  that  Jessamy  had  told  him  of  the  pecu- 
liarity of  the  canon  springs,  and  was  trying  to 
make  him  implicate  her.  But  the  old  man  was 
not  the  crafty  intriguer  he  seemed  to  fancy  him- 
self to  be.  He  already  had  said  too  much  if  he 
wished  to  make  Oliver  drag  the  girl's  name  into 
the  quarrel. 

"Why,  what  you  have  just  told  me,  added  to 
my  knowledge  of  what  I  did  to  clean  out  my 
spring,  leads  to  that  supposition,"  he  replied. 
"But,  as  I  was  about  to  remark  when  you  inter- 
rupted me,  I  can't  see  that  that  is  any  concern 
of  mine.  That's  putting  it  rather  bluntly,  per- 
haps; but  I  am  entirely  within  my  rights  in  de- 
veloping all  the  water  that  I  can  on  my  land, 
regardless  of  how  it  may  affect  land  that  lies 
below  me." 

"Right  there's  the  point,"  retorted  Selden. 
"I'm  a  pretty  good  friend  o'  the  prosecutin'  at- 
torney down  at  the  county  seat.  He  tells  me 
ye  can't  take  my  water  away  from  me  like  that." 


140       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Then  I  should  say  that  your  legal  friend  is 
not  very  well  posted  on  the  laws  governing  the 
development  and  disposition  of  water  in  this 
state,"  Oliver  promptly  told  him. 

"I  wrote  him,"  said  Selden,  "an'  I'll  show  ye 
the  letter  if  ye'll  invite  me  in." 

For  the  first  time  Oliver  hesitated.  Why  did 
Selden  wish  to  enter  the  cabin?  Could  not  the 
letter  be  produced  and  read  on  the  porch?  It 
flashed  through  his  mind  that  the  old  fox  wished 
to  get  him  inside  so  that  some  of  his  gang  might 
investigate  the  spring  and  find  out  the  volume  of 
the  water  that  was  flowing,  and  what  had  been 
done  to  increase  it.  This  only  added  to  his  belief 
that  the  Poison  Oakers  were  responsible  for  the 
wall  of  stones  that  had  choked  the  stream. 
Well,  why  not  let  them  find  out  all  that  they 
wished  to  know  in  this  regard? 

"Certainly,"  he  invited.  "Come  in."  And  he 
stood  back  from  the  door. 

Selden  clanked  his  spur  rowels  across  the 
threshold.  At  the  same  time  he  was  reaching  in- 
to his  shirtfront  for  the  letter. 

Then  an  odd  thing  occurred.  He  was  about  to 
take  the  chair  that  Oliver  had  pushed  forward 
when  his  blue  eyes  fell  upon  the  saddle  and  bridle 
which  had  come  to  stand  for  so  much  in  Oliver's 
life,  hanging  from  a  thong  in  one  corner  of  the 
room. 


THE  POISON  OAKEKS  RIDE        141 

The  old  Poison  Oaker's  eyes  grew  wide,  and, 
as  was  their  way  when  he  was  moved  out  of  his 
customary  brooding  mood,  his  thick  nostrils  be- 
gan dilating.  But  almost  instantly  he  was  his 
cold,  insolent  self  again. 

"I  heard  some  of  'em  gassin'  about  that  rig  o' 
yours,"  he  remarked.  "Said  she  was  a  hummer 
all  'round.  That  it  there?  Mind  if  I  look  her 
over?" 

"Not  at  all."  Oliver  was  quick  to  grasp  at 
any  chance  that  might  lead  to  the  big  question 
and  its  answer. 

Old  Man  Selden's  leather  chaps  whistled  his 
legs  to  the  corner,  where  he  stood,  long  arms  at 
his  sides,  gazing  at  the  saddle,  the  bridle,  and  the 
martingales.  His  deep  breathing  was  the  only 
sound  in  the  room.  Outside,  Oliver  heard  foot- 
steps, and  suspected  that  the  investigation  of  his 
spring  was  on. 

At  last  Adam  Selden  made  a  move.  He 
changed  his  position  so  that  his  spacious  back 
was  turned  toward  Oliver.  Quietly  Oliver 
leaned  to  one  side  in  his  chair,  and  he  saw  the 
cowman's  big  hand  outstretched  toward  the 
gem-mounted  concha  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the 
bridle — saw  thumb  and  fingers  turn  that  part  of 
the  bridle  inside-out. 

Again  the  room  was  soundless.  Then  Selden 
turned  from  the  exhibit,  and  Oliver  grew  tense 


142      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

as  he  noted  the  strange  pallor  that  had  come  on 
the  old  man's  face. 

"That's  a  han'some  rig,"  was  all  he  said,  as  he 
sank  to  his  chair  and  laid  a  letter  on  the  oilcloth- 
covered  table. 

The  letter  contained  the  information  that  its 
recipient  had  claimed,  and  was  signed  Elmer 
Standard.  Oliver  quickly  passed  it  back,  re- 
marking : 

"He's  entirely  wrong,  and  ought  to  know  it. 
I  have  had  occasion  to  look  into  the  legal  aspect 
of  water  rights  in  California  quite  thoroughly, 
and  fortunately  am  better  posted  than  most  lay- 
men are  on  the  subject." 

But  the  chief  of  the  Poison  Oakers  was  scarce 
listening.  In  his  blue  eyes  was  a  faraway  look, 
and  that  weird  grey  pallor  had  not  left  his  face. 

Suddenly  he  jerked  himself  from  reverie,  and, 
to  Oliver's  surprise,  a  smile  crossed  his  bearded 
lips. 

"Just  so!  Just  so!  I  judge  ye're  right,  Mr. 
Drew — I  judge  ye're  right,"  he  said  almost 
genially.  "Anyway  you  an'  me'd  be  out-an'-out 
fools  to  fuss  over  a  matter  like  that.  There's 
plenty  water  fer  the  cows,  an'  I  oughtn't  to 
butted  in.  But  us  ol'- timers,  ye  know,  we — 
Well,  I  guess  we  oughta  be  shot  an'  drug  out  fer 
the  cy-otes  to  gnaw  on.  I  won't  trouble  ye  again, 
Mr.  Drew.  An'  I'll  be  ridin'  now  with  the  boys, 


THE  POISON  OAKERS  HIDE        143 

I  reckon.  Ye  might  ride  up  and  get  acquainted 
with  my  wife  an'  step-daughter — but  I  guess 
ye've  already  met  Jess'my.  I've  heard  her 
mention  ye.  Ride  up  some  day — they'll  be  glad 
to  see  ye." 

And  Oliver  Drew  was  more  at  a  loss  how  to  act 
in  showing  him  out  than  when  he  had  first  faced 
him  on  the  porch. 

The  Poison  Oakers,  with  Old  Man  Selden  at 
their  head,  rode  away  up  the  canon.  Oliver 
Drew  was  throwing  the  saddle  on  Poche's  back 
two  minutes  after  they  had  vanished  in  the  trees. 
He  mounted  and  galloped  in  the  opposite  di- 
rection, opening  the  wire  "Indian"  gate  when  he 
reached  the  south  line  of  his  property. 

An  hour  later  he  was  searching  the  obscure 
hills  and  canons  for  Sulphur  Spring,  but  two 
hours  had  elapsed  before  he  found  it. 

It  was  hidden  away  in  a  little  wooded  canon, 
with  high  hills  all  about,  and  wild  grapevines, 
buckeyes,  and  bays  almost  completely  screened 
it.  While  cattle  might  drink  from  the  overflow 
that  ran  down  beyond  the  heavy  growth,  they 
could  not  have  reached  the  basin  which  had  been 
designed  to  hold  the  water  as  it  flowed  directly 
from  the  spring.  Moreover,  it  was  doubtful  if, 
during  the  hot  summer  months,  the  rapid  evapo- 
rating would  leave  any  water  for  cattle  in  the 
tiny  course  below  the  bushes. 


144       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

Oliver  parted  the  foliage  and  crawled  in  to  the 
clay  basin.  Cold  water  remained  in  the  bottom 
of  it,  but  the  inflow  had  ceased  entirely. 

He  bent  down  and  submerged  his  hand,  feeling 
along  the  sides  of  the  basin.  Almost  at  once  his 
fingers  closed  over  the  end  of  a  piece  of  three- 
quarter-inch  iron  pipe. 

Then  in  the  pool  before  his  face  there  came  a 
sudden  chug,  and  a  little  geyser  of  water  spurted 
up  into  his  eyes.  Oliver  drew  back  instinctively. 
His  face  blanched,  and  his  muscles  tightened. 

Then  from  somewhere  up  in  the  timbered  hills 
came  the  crash  of  a  heavy-calibre  rifle. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SHINPLASTBR  AND  CREEDS 

WHITE  ANN  and  Poche  bore  their 
riders  slowly  along  the  backbone  of 
the  ridge  that  upreared  itself  between 
Clinker  Creek  Canon  and  the  American.  Oc- 
casionally they  came  upon  groups  of  red  and 
roan  and  spotted  longhorn  steers,  each  branded 
with  the  insignia  of  the  Poison  Oakers.  Once  a 
deer  crashed  away  through  thick  chaparral. 
Young  jackrabbits  went  leaping  over  the  grassy 
knolls  at  their  approach.  Down  the  timbered 
hillsides  grey  squirrels  scolded  in  lofty  pines  and 
spruces.  Next  day  would  mark  the  beginning 
of  the  full-moon  period  for  the  month  of  June. 
Jessamy  Selden  was  in  a  thoughtful  mood  this 
morning.  Her  hat  lay  over  her  saddle  horn. 
Her  black  hair  now  was  parted  from  forehead  to 
the  nape  of  her  neck,  and  twisted  into  two  huge 
rosettes,  one  over  each  ear,  after  the  constant 
fashion  of  the  Indian  girls.  So  far  Oliver  Drew 
had  not  discovered  that  he  disliked  any  of  the 
many  ways  in  which  she  did  her  hair. 

145 


146       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"What  are  your  views  on  religion?"  was  her 
sudden  and  unexpected  question. 

"So  we're  going  to  be  heavy  thfe  morning,  eh?" 

"Oh,  no — not  particularly.  There's  usually  a 
smattering  of  method  in  my  madness.  You 
haven't  answered." 

"Seems  to  me  you've  given  me  a  pretty  big 
contract  all  in  one  question.  If  you  could 
narrow  down  a  bit — be  more  specific — " 

"Well,  then,  do  you  believe  in  that?"  She 
raised  her  arm  sharply  and  pointed  down  the  pre- 
cipitous slopes  to  the  green  American  rushing 
pell-mell  down  its  rugged  canon. 

They  had  just  come  in  sight  of  the  gold 
dredger,  whose  great  shovels  were  tearing  down 
the  banks,  leaving  a  long  serpentine  line  of 
debris  behind  the  craft  in  the  middle  of  the 
river. 

"That  dredge?"  he  asked.  "What's  it  to  do 
with  religion?" 

"To  me  it  personifies  the  greed  of  all  man- 
kind," she  replied.  "It  makes  me  wild  to  think 
that  a  great,  lumbering,  manmade  toy  should 
come  up  that  river  and  destroy  its  natural 
beauty  for  the  sake  of  the  tiny  particles  of  gold 
in  the  earth  and  rocks.  Ugh !  I  detest  the  sight 
of  the  thing.  The  gold  they  get  will  buy  diamond 
necklaces  for  fat,  foolish  old  women,  and  not  a 
stone  among  them  can  compare  with  the  dewdrop 


SHINPLASTER  AND  CREEDS       147 

flashing  there  in  that  filaree  blossom!  It  will 
buy  silk  gowns,  and  any  spider  can  weave  a  fabric 
with  which  they  can't  begin  to  compete.  It  will 
build  tall  skyscrapers,  and  which  of  them  will  be 
as  imposing  as  one  of  these  majestic  oaks  which 
that  machine  may  uproot?  Bah,  I  hate  the  sight 
of  the  thing!" 

"Gold  also  buys  food  and  simple  clothing,"  he 
reminded  her. 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  sighed.  "We've  gotten  to 
a  point  where  gold  is  necessary.  But,  oh,  how 
unnecessary  it  is,  after  all,  if  we  were  only  as 
God  intended  us  to  be!  I  detest  anything  util- 
itarian. I  hate  orchards  because  they  supplant 
the  trees  and  chaparral  that  Nature  has  planted. 
I  hate  the  irrigating  systems,  because  the  dams 
and  reservoirs  that  they  demand  ruin  rugged 
canons  and  valleys.  I  hate  railroads,  because 
their  hideous  old  trains  go  screeching  through 
God's  peaceful  solitudes.  I  hate  automobiles, 
because  they  bring  irreverent  unbelievers  into 
God's  chapels." 

"But  they  also  take  cramped-up  city  folks  out 
into  the  country,"  he  said.  "And  all  of  them  are 
not  irreverent." 

"Oh,  yes — I  know.  I'm  selfish  there.  And 
I'm  not  at  all  practical.  But  I  do  hate  'em!" 

"And  what  do  you  like  in  life?"  he  asked 
amusedly. 


148       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Well,  I  have  no  particular  objection  to 
horned  toads,  for  one  thing,"  she  laughed.  "But 
I'm  only  halfway  approaching  my  subject.  Do 
you  like  missionaries?" 

"I  think  I've  never  eaten  any,"  he  told  her 
gravely. 

But  she  would  not  laugh.  "I  don't  like  'em," 
she  claimed.  "I  don't  believe  in  the  practice  of 
sending  apostles  into  other  countries  to  force — 
if  necessary — the  believers  in  other  religions  to 
trample  under  foot  their  ancient  teachings,  and 
espouse  ours.  All  peoples,  it  seems  to  me,  be- 
lieve in  a  creator.  That's  enough.  Let  'em 
alone  in  their  various  creeds  and  doctrines  and 
methods  of  expressing  their  faith  and  devotion. 
Are  you  with  me  there?" 

"I  think  so.  Only  extreme  bigotry  and  ego- 
tism can  be  responsible  for  the  zeal  that  sends  a 
believer  in  one  faith  to  the  believers  in  another 
to  try  and  bend  them  to  his  way  of  thinking." 

"I  respect  all  religions — all  beliefs,"  she  said. 
"But  those  who  go  preaching  into  other  lands 
can  have  no  respect  at  all  for  the  other  fellow's 
faith.  And  that's  not  Christlike  in  the  first 
place." 

He  knew  that  she  had  something  on  her  mind 
that  she  would  in  good  time  disclose,  but  he  won- 
dered not  a  little  at  her  trend  of  thought  this 
morning. 


SHINPLASTER  AND  CREEDS       149 

"The    Showut   Poche-dakas    are   deeply   reli- 
gious," she  declared  suddenly.     "Long  years  ago 
they  inhabited  the  coast  country,  but  were  grad- 
ually pushed  back  up  here.     Down  there,  though, 
they  came  under  the  influence  of  the  old  Spanish 
padres;  and  today  their  religion  is  a  mixture 
of    Catholicism    and   ancient    tribal    teachings. 
They  are  sincere  and  devout.     I  have  as  much 
reverence  for  a  bareheaded  Indian  girl  on  her 
knees  to  the  Sun  God  as  I  have  for  a  hooded 
nun  counting  her  beads.     They  believe  in  a  su- 
preme being;  that's  enough  for  me.     You'll  be 
interested  at  the  fiesta  tomorrow  night.     I  rode 
up  there  the  other  day.     Everything  is  in  readi- 
ness.    The    ramadas    are    all    built,    and    the 
dance  floor  is  up,  and  Indians  are  drifting  in 
from     other     reservations     a    hundred    miles 
away." 

"Will  you  ride  up  with  me  tomorrow  after- 
noon?" he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  think  so — that  is,  since  I  heard  what 
Old  Man  Selden  had  to  say  about  you  the  day 
after  he  called.  I'll  tell  you  about  that  later. 
Yes,  all  the  whites  attend  the  fiestas.  The  Cali- 
fornia Indian  is  crude  and  not  very  picturesque, 
compared  with  other  Indians,  but  the  fiestas  are 
fascinating.  Especially  the  dances.  They  defy 
interpretation;  but  they're  interesting,  even,  if 
they  don't  show  a  great  deal  of  imagination. 


150       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

By  the  way,  I  bought  you  a  present  at  Halfmoon 
Flat  the  other  day." 

She  unbottoned  the  flap  on  a  pocket  of  her 
chaparejos,  and  handed  him  a  small  parcel 
wrapped  in  sky-blue  paper. 

"Am  I  to  open  it  now  or  wait  till  dhristmas?" 
he  asked. 

"Now,"  she  said. 

The  paper  contained  a  half-dozen  small  bottles 
of  liquid  courtplaster. 

"Oh,  I'm  perfectly  sane!"  she  laughed  in  her 
ringing  tones  as  he  turned  a  blank  face  to  her. 

"Tomorrow,"  she  went  on,  "you  are  to  smear 
yourself  with  that  liquid  courtplaster,  from  the 
soles  of  your  feet  to  your  knees.  When  one  coat 
dries,  apply  another;  and  continue  doing  so 
until  the  supply  is  exhausted." 

She  threw  back  her  head  and  her  whole-souled 
laughter  awoke  the  echoes. 

"It's  merely  a  crazy  idea  of  mine,"  she  ex- 
plained. "I  had  a  bottle  of  the  stuff  and  was 
reading  the  printed  directions  that  came  with  it. 
It  seems*  to  be  good  for  anything,  from  gluing  the 
straps  of  a  decollette  ballgown  to  a  woman's 
shoulders  to  the  protection  of  stenographer's  fin- 
gers and  harvesters'  hands  at  husking  time. 
It's  almost  invisible  when  it  has  dried  on  one's 
skin;  and  I  thought  it  might  be  of  benefit  to 
you  in  the  fire  dance." 


SHINPLASTER  AND  CREEDS       151 

"Say,"  he  said,  "you're  in  up  to  your  neck, 
while  I've  barely  got  my  feet  wet.  Come 
across !" 

"Well,  I'm  not  positive,"  she  told  him,  "but 
I'm  strongly  of  the  opinion  that  you're  going 
to  dance  the  fire  dance  at  the  Fiesta  de  Santa 
Maria  de  Refugio  tomorrow  night." 

"I?  I  dance  the  fire  dance?  Oh,  no,  Miss — 
you  have  the  wrong  number.  I  don't  dance  the 
fire  dance  at  all." 

"I  think  you  will  tomorrow  night,  and  I 
thought  that  liquid  courtplaster  might  help  pro- 
tect your  feet  and  legs.  I  put  some  on  my  sec- 
ond •finger  and  let  it  dry,  then  put  my  finger  on 
the  cookstove." 

"Yes?" 

"Well,  I  took  it  off  again.  But,  honestly,  the 
finger  that  had  none  on  at  all  felt  a  little  hotter, 
I  imagined.  I'm  sure  it  did,  and  I  only  had  two 
coats  on.  I  know  you'll  be  glad  you  tried  it, 
and  the  Indians  will  never  know  it's  there." 

"I'm  getting  just  a  bit  interested,"  he  re- 
marked. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "after  what  passed  between 
you  and  Chupurosa  Hatchinguish  that  day,  I'm 
almost  positive  that  tomorrow  night  you  are  to  be 
extended  the  honour  of  becoming  a  member  of  the 
tribe.  And  I  know  the  fire  dance  is  a  ceremony 
connected  with  admitting  an  outsider  to  mem- 


152       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

bership.  White  men  who  have  married  Indian 
women  are  about  the  only  ones  that  are  ever 
made  tribal  brothers  by  the  Showut  Poche-da- 
kas ;  so  in  your  case  it  is  a  distinct  honour. 

"I  have  seen  this  fire  dance.  While  a  white 
person  cannot  accurately  interpret  its  signifi- 
cance, it  seems  that  the  fire  is  emblematical  of 
all  the  forces  which  naturally  would  be  pitted 
against  you  in  your  endeavour  to  ally  yourself 
with  the  Showut  Poche-dakas. 

"For  instance,  there's  your  white  skin  and 
your  love  for  your  own  people,  the  difference  in 
the  life  you  have  led  as  compared  with  theirs, 
what  you  have  been  taught — and,  oh,  everything 
that  might  be  against  the  alliance.  All  this,  I 
say,  is  represented  by  the  fire.  And  in  the  fire 
dance,  my  dear  friend,  you  must  stamp  out  these 
objections  with  your  bare  feet  if  you  would  be- 
come brother  to  the  Showut  Poche-dakas." 

"With  my  bare  feet?  Stamp  out  these  ob- 
jections?" 

"Yes — as  represented  by  the  fire." 

"You  mean  I  must  stamp  out  a  fire  with  my 
bare  feet?  Actually?" 

"Actually — literally — honest-to-goodnessly !" 

"Good  night!"  cried  Oliver.  "I'll  cleave  to 
my  kith  and  kin." 

"And  never  learn  the  question  that  puzzled 


SHINPLASTER  AND  CREEDS       153 

your  idealistic   father  for  thirty   years?    Nor 
whether  the  correct  answer  is  Yes  or  No?" 

"But,  heavens,   I   don't  put  out  a  fire  that 
way !" 

"It's  not  so  dreadful  as  it  sounds,"  she  con- 
soled. "You  join  the  tribe,  and  you  all  go 
marching  and  stamping  about  a  big  bonfire  for 
hours  and  hours  and  hours,  till  the  fire  is  con- 
veniently low.  Then  the  one  who  is  to  be  admit- 
ted to  brotherhood  and  a  chosen  member  of  the 
tribe — the  champion  fire-dancer,  in  short — jump 
on  what  is  left  of  the  fire  and  stamp  it  out.  Of 
course  there  are  objections  to  you  from  the  view- 
point of  the  Showut  Poche-dakas,  and  they  must 
be  overcome  by  a  representative  of  them.  If  the 
fire  proves  too  much  for  your  bare  feet  the  ob- 
jections are  too  strong  to  be  overcome,  and  you 
never  will  be  an  honourary  Showut  Poche-daka. 
But  if  the  two  of  you  conquer  the  fire  with  your 
bare  feet  the  ceremony  is  over,  and  you're  It. 
And  when  the  other  Indians  see  that  you  two 
Indians" — her  eyes  twinkled — "are  getting  the 
better  of  the  fire,  they'll  jump  in  and  help  you/' 

"A  very  entertaining  ceremony — for  the 
grandstand,"  was  Oliver's  dry  opinion. 

"Of  course  the  Indian's  feet  are  tough  as 
leather,  and  they  have  it  on  you  there.  Hence 
this  liquid  courtplaster.  It's  worth  a  trial. 


Honestly,   I  held  my  finger  on  the  stove — oh, 
ever  so  long!     A  full  second,  I'd  say." 

Back  went  her  glorious  head,  and  her  teeth 
flashed  in  the  sunlight  as,  drunk  with  the  wine 
of  youth  and  health,  she  sent  her  rollicking 
laughter  out  over  the  hills  and  canons. 

"I'll  be  there  watching  and  rooting  for  you," 
she  assured  him  at  last.  "I  can  do  so  openly 
now — since  you've  won  the  heart  of  Adam  Sel- 
den.  What  do  you  think?  He  told  me  to  in- 
vite you  over  sometime!  But  all  this  doesn't 
fit  in  quite  logically  with  the  ivory-handled  Colt 
I  see  on  your  hip  today  for  the  first  time.  Ex- 
plain both,  please." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "Selden  seemed  ready  to  cut 
my  throat  till  he  examined  Poche's  bridle  and 
saw  the  B  on  the  back  of  a,  concha." 

"Ah!"  she  breathed,  drawing  in  her  lips. 

"And  then  he  grew  nice  as  pie — and  that's  all 
there  is  to  that." 

"And  the  six?" 

"Well,  I  buckled  it  on  this  morning,  thinking 
I  might  practice  up  a  bit,  as  you  advised." 

"So  far  so  good.  Now  amend  it  and  tell  the 
truth." 

"I  went  down  to  Sulphur  Spring  after  the 
Poison  Oakers  left  me,  and  as  I  was  examining 
the  water  a  bullet  plunked  into  it  from  the  hills 
and  I  got  my  eyebrows  wet.  As  .1  don't  like  to 


SHINPLASTER  AND  CREEDS        155 

have  anybody  but  myself  wet  my  eyebrows,  I'm 
totin'  a  six.  And  I  rather  like  the  weight  of  it 
against  my  leg  again.  It  reminds  me!" 

"Who  shot  at  you?" 

He  shrugged. 

"At  you,  do  you  think? — or  into  the  water  to 
frighten  you?" 

"Whoever  fired  could  not  see  me,  but  knew  I 
was  in  the  bushes  about  the  spring.  Took  a 
rather  long  chance,  if  he  merely  wished  to  give 
me  a  touch  of  highlife,  don't  you  think?" 

"I  wonder  if  the  bullet  is  still  in  the  basin.'* 

"I  never  thought  of  that.  I  ducked  for  cover 
at  once,  of  course,  and,  as  nobody  showed  up, 
rode  back  home." 

She  lifted  White  Ann  to  her  hind  legs  and 
spun  her  about  in  her  tracks.  "We'll  ride  to 
Sulphur  Spring  and  look  for  that  bullet,"  she 
announced. 

"And  be  ambushed,"  he  added,  as  Poche  fol- 
lowed White  Ann's  lead. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

HIGH  POWER 

JESSAMY  and  Oliver  had  wheeled  their 
horses  with  smch  unexpected  suddenness 
that  the  man  who  was  trailing  them  was 
caught  off  his  guard.  He  stood  plainly  revealed 
for  a  moment  in  the  open ;  then  he  found  his  wits 
and  plunged  indiscriminately  into  the  shield- 
ing chaparral. 

"Oh-ho!"  cried  Jessamy  in  a  low  tone.  "The 
plot  thickens!  Did  you  see  him?" 

"I'm  going  after  him,"  declared  her  compan- 
ion. 

"Stop !"  she  commanded,  as  he  lifted  Poche  for 
a  leap  toward  the  skulker's  vanishing  point. 

He  reined  in  quickly.     "Why?" 

"What  good  will  come  of  it?  Why  try  to  nose 
him  out?  We  may  be  ahead  in  the  end  if  we 
play  the  game  as  they  do.  We  have  more 
chance  of  finding  out  what  they're  up  to  by  leav- 
ing them  alone,  I'd  say." 

"Play  the  game,  eh?"  he  repeated.  "So 
there's  a  game  being  played.  I  didn't  just 
know.  Thought  all  that's  afoot  was  the  big  idea 

156 


HIGH  POWER  157 

of  chasing  me  over  the  hills  and  far  away.  And 
from  Selden's  latest  attitude,  it  looks  as  if  that 
had  been  abandoned.  Game,  eh?" 

"That's  what  I'd  call  it.  Quite  evidently  the 
man  was  spying  on  us." 

"Did  you  recognize  him?" 

"I  can't  make  sure." 

"But  you  think  you  know  him,"  he  said  with 
conviction. 

"Yes.  I  imagined  it  was  Digger  Foss.  But 
he  got  to  cover  pretty  quickly." 

"His  horse  can't  be  far  away.  Maybe  we  can 
locate  him  somewhere  along  the  back  trail.  I'd 
know  that  rawboned  roan." 

"So  should  I.  Let's  send  'em  along  a  little 
faster." 

They  had  by  this  time  reached  the  opening  in 
the  chaparral  into  which  their  shadow  had 
dodged.  By  common  consent  they  passed  it 
without  looking  to  right  or  left. 

"He  may  imagine  we  didn't  see  him,"  whis- 
pered Jessamy.  "I  hope  he  does." 

There  was  an  open  stretch  ahead  of  them,  and 
across  it  they  galloped,  the  girl  piercing  the 
thickets  on  the  right  in  search  of  a  saddle  horse, 
Oliver  sweeping  the  slopes  that  descended  to 
the  river.  But  neither  saw  a  horse,  and  in  the 
trail  were  no  hoofprints  not  made  by  their  own 
mounts. 


158      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"He  has  been  afoot  from  the  start,"  decided 
Jessamy.  "I  wish  I  knew  whether  or  not  it 
was  Digger  Foss." 

They  wound  their  way  down  to  Sulphur 
Spring  presently,  and  came  to  a  halt  in  the  ra- 
vine below  it. 

"Now,"  said  Oliver,  "who  knows  but  that 
my  sniper  is  not  hidden  up  there  in  the 
hills?" 

"I'll  look  for  that  bullet,"  she  purposed,  and 
swung  out  of  her  saddle. 

"Oh,  no  you  won't!"  His  foot  touched  the 
ground  with  hers. 

"Yes — listen!  No  one  would  shoot  at  me. 
But  they  might  take  another  crack  at  you,  even 
with  me  along  to  witness  it.  If  they  were  hid- 
den and  could  get  away  unseen,  you  know.  But 
they'd  not  shoot  at  me." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"Well,  I'm  one  of  them — after  a  fashion. 
They  all  like*  me — and  at  least  one  of  them  wants 
to  gather  me  to  his  manly  breast  and  fly  with 
me." 

"But  things  are  different  since  I  came. 
You've  taken  sides  with  me.  If  any  one  looks 
for  that  slug,  I'm  the  one  that'll  do  it." 

He  started  toward  the  spring. 

"Stop!"  she  ordered,  and  grasped  his  shirt- 
sleeves. "Listen  here :  I'd  bet  a  dollar  against  a 


HIGH  POWER  159 

saddle  string  that  that  was  Digger  Foss  we  saw 
up  on  the  ridge." 

"Well?" 

"He's  afoot.  He  can't  have  had  time  to  get 
down  here  and  guard  Sulphur  Spring." 

"All  right.     Well?" 

"And  I  know  positively  that  Adam  Selden  and 
the  boys  are  up  north  today  after  a  bunch  of 
drifters.  So  none  of  them  can  be  here.  That 
eliminates  six  of  the  Poison  Oakers.  There 
would  be  left  only  Obed  Pence,  Ed  Buchanan, 
Chuck  Allegan,  and  Jay  Muenster — all  privates, 
next  to  outsiders.  None  of  them  would  shoot  at 
me,  and — "  She  came  to  a  full  stop  and  eyed 
him  speculatively.  "And  I'm  going  to  look  for 
that  bullet,"  she  finished  limpingly. 

Oliver  looked  her  over  thoughtfully.  "I  can't 
say  that  I  get  what  you're  driving  at  at  all,"  he 
observed.  "But  it  seems  to  me  that  you're  try- 
ing to  convey  that,  with  the  Seldens  and  Digger 
Foss  eliminated,  there  is  no  danger." 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  gave  him  several  vig- 
orous, exaggerated  nods. 

"But  aren't  all  of  the  Poison  Oakers  con- 
cerned in  my  speedy  removal  from  this  country?" 

"Well  —  yes"—  hesitatingly.  "That's  right. 
But  the  four  will  not  molest  me.  I  know. 
Please  let's  not  argue  about  what  I  know  is 
right!" 


160      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

His  lips  twitched  amusedly.  "But  one  of  the 
four  might  take  a  pot-shot  at  me.  Is  that  it?" 

Again  the  series  of  nods,  eyes  closed.  "You 
see,"  she  said,  "only  the  Seldens  and  Digger 
Foss  accuse  me  of  being  on  your  side.  So  if  any 
one  of  the  other  four  were  to  see  me  go  to  the 
spring  he'd  think  I  was  merely  after  water,  or 
something.  But  if  you  were  to  go,  why — why, 
it  might  be  different." 

Saying  which  she  unexpectedly  darted  away 
from  him  up  the  ravine,  left  the  shelter  of  the 
trees,  and  walked  boldly  to  the  spring. 

She  parted  the  bushes  and  disappeared  from 
sight. 

Oliver  stole  quickly  to  the  edge  of  the  cover 
and  hid  behind  a  tree,  his  Colt  unholstered  and 
hanging  in  his  hand.  His  eyes  scoured  the  tim- 
bered hills  on  both  sides  of  the  spring,  but  not 
a  movement  did  he  see. 

He  puzzled  over  Jessamy's  speech  as  he 
watched  for  evidences  of  a  hostile  demonstra- 
tion. 

"It  smacks  of  a  counter-plot,"  he  mused. 
"All  of  the  Poison  Oakers  want  me  out  of  here, 
but  only  the  Seldens  and  the  halfbreed  are  aware 
that  Jessamy  is  friendly  with  me.  But  these 
four  must  know  it — everybody  in  the  country 
does  by  now.  It  would  look  as  if  Old  Man  Sel- 
den  and  his  chosen  five  are  the  only  ones  who  sus- 


HIGH  POWER  161 

pect  her  of  having  an  interest  in  me  beyond  pure 
friendship,  then.  That's  it!  She  said  there 
was  another  reason  other  than  the  grazing  mat- 
ter why  Old  Man  Selden  wants  me  away.  And 
that  can't  be  moonshining,  after  all;  for  if 
Pense  and  the  others  are  likely  to  shoot  me  at 
the  spring,  they're  in  on  that.  But  now  ap- 
parently Selden  wants  to  appear  friendly.  I 
can't  get  it!  Jessamy's  not  playing  just  fair 
with  me.  She's  keeping  something  back.  She's 
too  honest  and  straightforward  to  be  a  good  dis- 
sembler; she's  bungling  all  the  way." 

She  was  returning  swiftly  down  the  ravine  be- 
fore he  had  reached  the  end  of  his  conclusions. 
She  held  up  something  between  dripping  fingers 
as  she  entered  the  concealment  of  the  trees. 

"It's  perfect  still,"  she  announced.  "I  thought 
it  wouldn't  be  flattened  or  bent,  since  it  struck 
the  water." 

Oliver    took    the    small,    soft-pointed,    steel- 
banded  projectile  from  her  hands  and  studied  it. 
"M'm-m!"      he      muttered.     "What's      this? 
Looks  no  larger  than  a  twenty-two." 

She  nodded.  "So  I'd  say.  A  twenty-two 
high-power — wicked  little  pill." 

"And  which  of  the  Poison  Oakers  packs  a 
twenty-two  high-power  rifle?  Do  you  know?" 

"It  happens  that  I  do.  I've  taken  the  pains 
to  acquaint  myself  with  the  various  guns  of  the 


162       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

Poison  Oakers.  Most  of  them  use  twenty-five- 
thirty-fives.  Old  Man  Selden,  Bolar,  and  Jay 
Muenster  use  thirty-thirties.  There's  one  twen- 
ty-two high-power  Savage  in  the  gang,  and  it's 
a  new  one.  They  say  it's  a  devilish  weapon." 

"Who  owns  it?" 

"Digger  Foss." 

"Then  it  was  Foss  who  shot?" 

"Yes — and  it's  he  who  was  following  us  to- 
day. You  see,  Digger  'lives  closer  to  this  part 
of  the  country  than  any  of  the  rest.  He'd  be  the 
only  one  likely  to  come  in  afoot." 

"Do  you  think  he  tried  to  lay  me  out?" 

She  looked  off  through  the  trees,  and  her  face 
was  troubled.  "I'm  afraid  he  did,"  she  replied 
in  a  strained,  hushed  key.  "Had  you  been  in 
sight,  we  might  determine  that  he  had  shot  at 
the  water  before  your  face  to  put  the  fear  of  the 
Poison  Oakers  into  your  heart.  But  he  couldn't 
see  you,  in  there  hidden  by  the  dense  growth. 
It  was  a  fifty-fifty  chance  whether  he  got  you  or 
not.  If  he'd  merely  wished  to  bully  you,  he'd 
never  taken  the  chance  of  killing  you  by  firing 
into  the  growth." 

"I  guess  that's  right,"  he  said.  "And  now 
what's  to  be  done?  I'll  never  be  able  to  forget 
the  picture  of  Henry  Dodd  clutching  at  White 
Ann's  legs  for  support  in  his  death  struggle. 
The  situation  is  graver  than  I  thought.  I  ex- 


HIGH  POWER  163 

pec  ted  to  be  bullied  and  tormented;  but  I  didn't 
expect  a  deliberate  attempt  on  my  life." 

With  an  impetuous  movement  she  threw  her 
bare  forearm  horizontally  against  a  tree  trunk, 
and  hid  her  eyes  against  it. 

"Oh,  I  wish,  you  hadn't  come !"  she  half  sobbed. 
"But  you  had  to — you  had  to!  And  now  you 
can't  leave  because  that  would  be  running 
away.  And  you're  as  good  as  dead  if  this  side- 
winder gets  the  right  chance  at  you.  What  can 
we  do!" 

Oliver  was  silent  in  the  face  of  her  distress. 
What  could  he  do  indeed !  All  the  chances  were 
against  him,  with  his  enemies  ready  and  will- 
ing to  take  any  unfair  advantage,  while  his  man- 
liness would  not  let  him  stoop  to  the  use  of 
such  tactics.  They  probably  would  avoid  an 
out-and-out  quarrel,  where  the  chances  would  be 
even  for  a  quick  draw  and  quick  trigger  work. 
They  would  ambush  him,  as  the  halfbreed  had 
attempted  to  do.  He  believed  now  that  only 
the  density  of  the  growth  about  Sulphur  Spring 
had  stood  between  him  and  death,  for  Digger 
Foss  was  accounted  an  expert  shot. 

He  gently  pulled  Jessamy  Selden  from  the 
tree. 

"There,  there!"  he  soothed.  "Let's  not  bor- 
row trouble.  They  haven't  got  me  yet.  Let's 
ride  on.  And  I  think  you'd  better  give  me  a 


little  more  of  your  confidence.  I  feel  that  you're 
keeping  me  in  the  dark  about  some  phases  of  the 
deal." 

She  mounted  in  silence,  and  they  turned  up 
Clinker  Creek  toward  Oliver's  cabin. 

"I'd  never  make  a  successful  vamp,  even  if  I 
were  beautiful,"  she  smiled  at  last.  "I  can't 
hide  things.  I  give  myself  away.  I'm  always 
bungling.  But  I  can  play  poker,  just  the  same !" 
she  added  triumphantly. 

"Don't  try  to  hide  things,  then,"  he  pleaded. 
"Tell  me  all  that's  troubling  you." 

She  shook  her  head.  "That's  the  greatest  dif- 
ficulty," she  complained.  "I  shouldn't  have  let 
you  know  that  I  have  a  secret,  but  I  bungled  and 
let  it  out.  And  I  must  keep  it.  But  just  the 
same,  I'm  with  you  heart  and  soul.  I'm  on  your 
side  from  start  to  finish,  and  I  want  you  to 
believe  it." 

"I  do,"  he  said  simply. 

As  they  reached  the  cabin  he  asked :  "Did  you 
feel  the  end  of  the  pipe  under  the  water  in  the 
spring?" 

She  nodded.  Then  with  the  promise  to  meet 
him  next  morning  for  their  ride  to  the  fiesta,  she 
moved  her  mare  slowly  up  the  canon  and  disap- 
peared in  the  trees. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  FIRE  DANCE' 

THE  round  moon  looked  down  upon  a 
scene   so   weird    and   compelling   that 
Oliver  Drew  vaguely  wondered  if  it  all 
were  real,  or  one  of  those  strange  dreams  that 
leave  in  the  mind  of  the  dreamer  the  impression 
that  ages  ago  he  has  looked  upon  the  things 
which  his  sleeping  fancy  pictured. 

The  moon  rode  low  in  the  heavens.  The  night 
was  waning.  Tall  pines  and  spruce  stood  black 
and  bar-like  against  the  silver  radiance.  Away 
in  the  distance  coyotes  lifted  their  yodel,  half 
jocular,  half  mournful,  as  a  maudlin  drunkard 
sings  dolefully  a  merry  tune. 

In  a  cup  of  the  hills,  surrounded  by  acres  and 
acres  of  almost  impenetrable  chaparral  and  tim- 
ber, a  hundred  or  more  human  beings  were  clus- 
tered about  a  blazing  fire.  Horses  stamped  in 
the  corrals.  Now  and  then  an  Indian  dog  cast 
back  a  vicious  challenge  at  the  wild  dogs  on  the 
hill.  White  men  and  women  and  Indian  men 
and  women  stood  about  the  fire  in  a  great  circle, 

165 


166       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

silent,  intent  on  what  was  taking  place  at  the 
fire's  edge. 

Within  this  outer  circle  of  spectators  revolved 
another  smaller  circle  of  brown-skinned  men 
and  women.  But  one  of  this  number  was  white, 
and  in  the  flickering  light  of  the  fire  his  skin 
glowed  in  odd  contrast  to  the  skins  of  those  who 
danced  with  him. 

For  Oliver  Drew  was  stripped  but  for  a 
breechcloth  about  his  loins,  and  directly  oppo- 
site him  in  the  circle,  always  across  the  fire 
from  him  as  the  human  snake  revolved  about 
the  flames,  was  a  stalwart  young  Indian,  like- 
wise nearly  nude.  He  it  was  who  at  the  proper 
moment  would  dash  upon  the  fire  with  this 
white  man,  when,  with  hands  clasped  over  it, 
they  two  would  strive  to  beat  it  to  ashes  with 
naked  feet. 

Side  by  side,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  pressed 
into  the  circle  like  canned  fish,  the  fire  dancers 
circled  the  leaping  flames.  Sweat  streamed 
from  their  bodies,  for  the  fire  was  a  huge  one 
and  roared  and  crackled  and  leaped  at  them  in- 
cessantly. 

For  two  solid  hours  the  dance  had  been  in 
progress.  Now  and  then  an  old  squaw,  faint 
from  the  heat  of  the  fire  and  the  nerve  strain 
which  only  the  fanatic  knows,  dropped  wearily 
out  and  staggered  away.  Then  the  rank  would 


THE  FIKE  DANCE  167 

close  and  fill  the  vacancy;  and  this  automati- 
cally made  the  circle  smaller  and  brought  the 
dancers  closer  to  the  flames,  for  they  must  touch 
each  other  always  as  they  circled  slowly. 

Round  about  them  hobbled  Chupurosa, 
adorned  with  eagle  feathers  dyed  red  and  yellow 
and  black.  In  his  uplifted  hand  he  held  a  small 
turtle  shell,  with  a  wooden  handle  bound  to  it 
by  a  rawhide  thong.  In  the  shell,  whose  ends 
were  closed  with  skin,  were  cherry  stones.  The 
incessant  rattling  of  them  accompanied  the 
dancers'  elephantine  tread.  It  "was  the  toy  of 
childhood,  and  those  who  danced  to  its  croaking 
music  were  children  of  the  hills  and  canons, 
simple-minded  and  serene. 

Slowly  as  moves  a  sluggish  reptile  in  early 
spring  the  dancers  circled  the  fire,  times  without 
number.  Guttural  grunts  accompanied  the  con- 
stant thud  of  tough  bare  feet  on  the  beaten 
earth.  Now  and  then  they  broke  into  chanting 
— a  weird,  uncanny  wailing  that  sent  shivers 
along  the  spine  and  made  one  think  of  heathen 
sacrifices  and  outlandish,  cruel  heathen  rites. 
Straight  downward,  almost,  the  dancers  planted 
their  feet.  When  their  feet  came  down  three 
inches  had  not  been  gained  over  the  last  stamp- 
ing step.  It  required  many  long  minutes  for 
the  entire  circle  to  complete  the  trip  around 
the  fire;  and  this  continued  on  and  on  till  the 


168       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

brain  of  Oliver  Drew  swam  and  the  fire  in  real- 
ity took  on  the  aspect  of  a  tormenting,  threaten- 
ing ogre  which  this  rite  must  crush. 

Occasionally  some  fanatic  would  spring  from 
the  line  and  rush  upon  the  fire,  striking  at  it 
with  his  feet,  slapping  at  it  with  his  hands, 
growling  at  it  and  threatening  it  in  his  guttural 
tongue.  Then  the  dance  would  grow  fiercer, 
and  the  chanting  would  break  out  anew,  while 
always  the  cherry  stones  rattled  dismally  and 
urged  the  zealots  on. 

When  would  it  end?  There  was  fresh,  clean 
pitch  in  the  great  logs  that  blazed ;  and  it  seemed 
to  Oliver  that  the  exorcism  must  continue  to  the 
end  of  time. 

At  first  he  had  felt  like  an  utter  fool  when  he 
was  led  from  the  tent,  almost  nude,  to  face  the 
curious  eyes  of  thirty  or  more  white  people. 
His  simple  instructions  had  been  given  him  by 
Chupurosa  in  the  hut  where  he  had  been  kept 
virtually  a  prisoner  since  his  arrival.  Then 
he«had  been  led  forth  and  pressed  into  his  place 
in  the  circle,  across  from  the  other  nearly  naked 
man  who  swam  so  dizzily  before  his  eyes.  Then 
the  slow  ordeal  had  begun,  and  round  and 
round  they  went  till  he  thought  he  must  surely 
lose  his  reason. 

On  his  feet  and  legs  was  the  liquid  court- 
plaster,  and  Chupurosa  had  not  obserred  it. 


THE  FIRE  DANCE  169 

Coat  after  coat  he  had  applied,  and  had  a  certain 
feeling  of  being  fortified.  Yet  he  doubted  if, 
when  the  moment  came  for  him  to  leap  upon 
the  fire  and  clasp  hands  with  the  man  oppo- 
site, any  of  the  mucilaginous  substance  would 
be  left  on  the  soles  of  his  already  burning 
feet. 

He  had  seen  Jessamy's  face  beyond  the  fire. 
She  had  smiled  at  him  encouragingly.  But  now 
her  face  had  blended  with  the  other  faces  that 
danced  confusedly  before  his  eyes,  and  he  could 
not  separate  it  as  the  circle  went  slowly  round 
and  round. 

An  old  man  dropped,  face  down,  on  the  earth, 
completely  overcome.  From  beyond  the  circle 
of  dancers  a  pair  of  arms  reached  through  and 
dragged  him  out  by  the  heels.  The  dance  went 
on,  and  the  dancers  now  were  closer  to  the  fire 
by  the  breadth  of  one  human  body. 

Weirdly  rose  the  chant  to  the  moonlit  night. 
Coyotes  answered  with  doleful  ribaldry.  A 
woman  pitched  forward  on  her  face — a  young 
woman.  She  lay  quite  still,  breathing  heavily. 
Oliver  stepped  over  her  body  as  they  dragged  her 
out  to  resuscitate  her,  and  it  seemed  as  he  did  so 
that  he  scarce  could  lift  his  feet  so  high. 

Now  one  by  one  they  dropped,  exhausted,  reek- 
ing with  sweat  caused  by  the  intensity  of  the 
heat  from  the  burning  pitch  logs.  Two  fell  at 


170       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

once — one  inward,  the  other  back.  Up  rose  the 
chant  as  they  were  dragged  away;  fiercer  grew 
the  stamping;  frenziedly  the  cherry  stones 
clicked  in  the  turtle  shell. 

Lower  and  lower  rode  the  radiant  moon. 
Blacker  and  blacker  grew  the  outlined  woods. 
The  coyotes  ceased  their  insane  laughter  and 
scurried  off  to  where  jackrabbits  played  on 
moonlit  pasturelands.  And  still  the  passionate 
exorcism  went  on  and  on,  with  men  and  women 
dropping  every  minute  and  the  circle  narrowing 
about  the  fire  and  closing  in. 

The  blaze  was  lower  now.  The  pitch  in  the 
logs  no  longer  sputtered  and  dripped  blazing  to 
the  ground.  But  the  heat  was  still  intense,  and 
the  white  man's  tender  flesh  was  seared  as  the 
giving  out  of  some  dancer  forced  the  circle 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  flames. 

But  into  his  heart  had  come  a  fierce  purpose 
born  of  the  fanaticism  responsible  for  this  or- 
deal. He  was  a  man  of  destiny,  he  felt,  though 
obliged  to  "carry  on"  with  blinded  eyes.  Some- 
thing of  the  fierce,  dogged  nature  of  these  wild 
people  of  the  woods  entered  his  soul.  He  was 
dying  by  inches,  it  seemed,  but  the  fire,  glowing 
and  spitting  hatred  at  him,  became  a  real  enemy 
to  be  conquered  by  grit  and  stern  endurance: 
and,  held  up  by  the  bodies  that  pressed  against 
his  on  either  side,  he  stamped  on  crazily,  his 


THE  FIEE  DANCE  171 

teeth  set,  the  ridiculous  side  of  his  plight  for- 
gotten. 

And  now  the  circle  was  pitiably  small;  and 
those  who  formed  it  staggered  and  reeled,  and 
scarce  found  breath  to  chant  or  revile  their  dy- 
ing enemy.  But  still  the  cherry  stones  rattled 
on  while  that  old  oak  of  a  Chupurosa  moved 
round  and  about,  tireless  as  an  engine. 

Oliver  dragged  his  feet  now;  he  thought  he 
could  not  lift  them.  His  brain  was  a  dull,  dead 
thing  except  for  that  passionate  hatred  of  the 
fire  that  the  weird  chanting  and  the  strange- 
ness of  it  all  had  brought  about.  And  now  the 
fire  grew  lower,  lower.  Back  of  the  ragged  hills 
the  moon  slipped  down  and  left  the  wilderness  in 
blackness.  Only  the  fire  gleamed. 

Then  suddenly  the  rattling  of  the  cherry 
stones  was  quieted.  Now  the  only  sounds  were 
the  weary  thud-thud  of  tough  bare  heels  and  the 
stentorian  breathing  of  the  zealous  worshippers, 
an  occasional  heartrending  grunt. 

On  and  on — round  and  round.  The  very  air 
grew  tense.  Dawn  was  at  hand.  Its  cold 
breath  crept  down  from  the  snow-capped  peaks. 
A  glimmer  of  grey  showed  in  the  eastern  sky. 

Only  fifteen  of  the  Showut  Poche-dakas  plod- 
ded now  about  the  failing  fire,  by  this  time 
smouldering  at  their  very  feet.  Fifteen  Showut 
Poche-dakas — and  Oliver  Drew !  All  were  men, 


172       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

young  men  in  life's  full  vigour.  Yet  they 
swayed  and  reeled  and  staggered  drunkenly  as 
the  dizzying  ordeal  went  on  through  the  grey 
silence  of  dawn. 

Now  dawn  came  fast  and  spread  its  inchoate 
light  over  the  silent  assemblage  in  the  hills. 
Then  like  a  burst  of  sound  disturbing  a  weary 
sleeper,  the  cherry  stones  resumed  their  rattling. 

At  once,  back  of  the  circle  of  tottering  danc- 
ers, a  weird  chant  arose  till  it  drummed  in  Oli- 
ver's ears  and  seemed  to  be  lulling  him  to  sleep. 

Out  of  the  void  taut  fingers  came  and  clasped 
his  own.  His  hands  were  jerked  high  over  his 
head.  Something  stung  his  feet  and  legs,  and 
he  thought  of  the  rattler  on  the  hill.  The  chant 
rose  to  a  riotous  shouting.  The  air  was  filled 
with  imprecations,  wailings,  shrieks,  and  spite- 
ful challenges.  Now  Oliver  realized  that  his 
fingers  were  locked  with  those  of  the  nude  Indian 
who  had  danced  opposite  him;  that  they  two 
were  over  the  waning  fire,  fighting  it  with  their 
feet. 

How  long  it  lasted  he  never  knew.  Life  came 
back  to  his  mistreated  muscles,  and  with  his  feet 
he  fought  this  thing  that  stung  him  and  seared 
him  and  filled  his  heart  with  burning  wrath. 
Then  came  a  long,  concerted  shout.  In  rushed 
the  Showut  Poche-dakas  to  the  fighters'  aid. 
Bare  feet  by  twenty-fives  and  fifties  slapped  at 


THE  FIRE  DANCE  173 

the  fire,  and  a  herd  of  dark  forms  trampled 
over  it  and  beat  it  to  extinction. 

A  long  shout  of  triumph  that  sped  away  on 
swift  wings  toward  the  coming  dawn  and  the 
distant  mountain!  And  then  a  single  voice 
lifted  high  in  words  which  in  English  are  these : 

"The  evil  fire  god  has  been  defeated.  No  bar- 
rier stands  between  the  white  man  and  the 
Showut  Poche-dakas.  From  this  hour  to  the 
end  of  time  he  who  has  danced  the  fire  dance  to- 
night and  conquered  the  evil  spirit  shall  be 
brother  to  the  Showut  Poche-dakas!" 

Then  just  before  Oliver  fainted  in  some  one's 
arms  he  heard  in  English : 

"Seven  hours  and  twenty  minutes — the  long- 
est fire  dance  in  the  history  of  the  tribe!" 

And  the  new  brother  of  the  Showut  Poche- 
dakas  heard  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A  GUEST  AT  THE  RANCHO 

THEN  there  was  feasting  and  racing  and 
dancing  and  much  ado.  Dice  clicked ; 
cards  sputtered;  the  pawn  passed  in 
the  ancient  peon  game.  There  was  a  barbecued 
steer,  athletic  contests,  and  competitions  in 
markmanship.  The  Fiesta  de  Santa  Maria  de 
Refugio  was  to  continue  throughout  the  entire 
period  of  the  full  moon,  and  there  must  be  diver- 
sion for  every  day  and  every  night. 

Oliver  Drew  awoke  the  next  day  after  the  fire 
dance  in  the  ramada  which  had  been  assigned  to 
him.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  been  passed  through 
a  stamp  mill,  so  sore  were  his  muscles  and  so 
burned  and  blistered  wrere  feet  and  legs.  He 
had  been  carried  to  his  bed  of  green  willow 
boughs  directly  after  the  dance,  where  he  had 
slept  until  nearly  nightfall.  Then  he  had  been 
awakened  and  given  food.  After  eating  he  fell 
asleep  once  more,  and  slept  all  night,  his  head 
in  the  silver-mounted  saddle  that  Bolivio  had 
made. 

He  dragged  himself  from  the  shakedown  and 

174 


A  GUEST  AT  THE  KANCHO         175 

went  and  sat  at  an  opening  in  the  booth.  The 
ramada  of  the  California  Indian  is  merely  an 
arbourlike  structure  built  of  newly  cut  limbs  of 
trees,  their  still  unwithered  leaves  serving  to 
screen  the  occupants  from  outside  eyes. 

The  birds  were  singing.  Up  the  steep  moun- 
tainside back  of  the  reservation  the  goats  and 
burros  of  the  Showut  Poche-dakas  browsed  con- 
tentedly on  buckthorn  and  manzanita  bushes. 
There  was  the  smell  of  flowers  in  the  drowsy  air, 
mingling  strangely  with  that  indescribable  odour 
that  permeates  an  Indian  village. 

It  was  noticeably  quiet  outside.  Doubtless 
the  Indians  were  enjoying  an  early-morning 
siesta  after  some  grilling  orgy  of  the  night  be- 
fore. Oliver  groaned  with  the  movements  nec- 
essary to  searching  his  pockets  for  cigarette 
materials.  His  groan  was  mimicked  by  a 
familiar  voice  in  the  doorway. 

Jessamy  Selden  entered. 

"I've  been  listening  for  a  sound  from  you,"  she 
chirruped.  "My,  how  you  slept!  All  in?" 

"Pretty  nearly,"  he  said. 

She  came  and  sat  beside  him  on  a  box. 

"Are  you  badly  burned?" 

"Oh,  no.  I  guess  your  courtplaster  helped 
some.  But  I'm  terribly  sore.  And,  worst  of  all, 
I  feel  like  an  utter  ass !" 

"Why,  how  so?" 


176       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

He  snorted  indignantly.  "I  went  nutty,"  he 
laughed  shortly.  "I  have  lost  the  supreme 
contempt  which  I  have  always  had  for  people 
who  go  batty  in  any  sort  of  fanatical  demon- 
stration, like  that  last  night.  I've  seen  sup- 
posedly intelligent  white  folks  go  absolutely  wild 
at  religious  camp  meetings  in  the  South,  and  I 
always  marvelled  at  their  loss  of  control.  Now  I 
guess  I  understand.  Hour  after  hour  of  what  I 
went  through  the  other  night,  with  the  chanting 
and  wailing  and  the  constant  rattle  of  those  con- 
founded cherry  stones,  and  the  terrible  heat,  and 
men  and  women  giving  out  all  about  me,  and  the 
perpetual  thud-thud  of  bare  feet — ugh!  I 
wouldn't  go  through  it  again  for  ten  thousand 
dollars." 

"I  thought  it  best  not  to  warn  you  of  the 
severity  of  it  beforehand,"  she  announced  com- 
placently. "Very  few  white  men  have  ever 
danced  the  fire  dance,  and  only  one  or  two  have 
held  out  to  the  end.  Of  course  failure  to  do  so 
signifies  that  the  powers  working  against  the 
affiliation  are  too  strong  to  be  overcome.  These 
men  who  failed,  then,  did  not  become  brothers  of 
the  Showut  Poche-dakas." 

"Lucky  devils!" 

"Here,  here!"  she  cried.  "Don't  talk  that 
way.  You're  glad,  aren't  you?" 


A  GUEST  AT  THE  RANCHO         177 

"I'm  tickled  half  to  death." 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  do  not  take  this  seri- 
ously, Mr.  Drew?" 

"Look  here,"  he  said :  "why  didn't  you  tell  me 
more  of  what  I  might  expect  at  this  fool  per- 
formance?" 

"I  was  afraid  you  might  look  at  the  matter 
much  as  you're  looking  at  it  now/'  she  answered. 
"I  knew  you'd  go  through  with  it,  though,  if  you 
once  got  started.  I  knew  it  to  be  a  terrible 
ordeal,  but  I  was  confident  that  you  would  win." 

"I  thank  you,  I'm  sure.  Win  what,  though? 
The  reputation  of  being  a  half-baked  simpleton?" 

"Do  you  imagine  that  the  white  people  who 
saw  you  are  ridiculing  you?" 

"Aren't  they  " 

"Absolutely  nothing  of  the  sort!  You're  the 
hero  of  the  hour.  People  about  here  always 
attend  the  fiestas,  and  you'll  be  surprised  to  note 
the  seriousness  and  lack  of  levity  that  they  show 
in  regard  to  the  rites  and  ceremonies  of  the 
Showut  Poche-dakas.  It's  an  inheritance  from 
the  old  days,  I  suppose,  when  the  few  white  men 
who  were  here  found  it  decidedly  to  their  ad- 
vantage to  be  friendly  with  the  Indians.  They 
glory  in  your  grit,  and  everybody  is  talking  about 
you.  You  should  have  heard  Old  Man  Selden. 
'There's  a  regular  man,'  he  loudly  informed 


178       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

every  one  after  the  dance.  And  folks  about 
here  listen  to  what  Old  Man  Selden  says,  for  one 
reason  or  another." 

"But  it  was  such  an  assinine  proceeding!" 

"Was  it?  I  thought  you  respected  the  other 
fellow's  beliefs  and  religious  practices." 

"Was  that  a  religious  dance?" 

"Decidedly.  All  of  their  dances  are  religious 
at  bottom.  You  were  trying  to  overcome  the  evil 
spirit,  represented  by  the  fire,  that  stood  between 
you  and  your  union  with  the  Showut  Poche- 
dakas.  You  are  one  of  the  few  who  have 
weathered  this  ordeal  and  won.  And  now  you're 
a  recognized  member  of  the  tribe." 

"And  is  that  an  enviable  distinction?" 

"What  do  you  think  about  that?" 

Oliver  was  silent  a  time.  "Tell  the  truth,"  he 
said  at  last,  "I've  been  thinking  more  of  my  sore 
muscles  and  scorched  legs,  and  of  the  ridiculous 
figure  I  supposed  I  had  cut  the  other  night.  I 
suppose,  though,  that  when  a  hundred  or  more 
fellow  creatures  unamimously  admit  a  rank  out- 
sider to  the  plane  of  brotherhood,  one  would  be 
shallow  minded  indeed  to  look  upon  it  too 
lightly." 

"Exactly.  Just  what  I  wanted  to  hear  you 
say.  And  the  more  simple  natured  and  trusting 
they  are,  the  more  it  devolves  upon  you  to  treat 
their  brotherhood  with  respect  and  reverence. 


A  GUEST  AT  THE  RANCHO         179 

You  are  now  brother  to  the  Showut  Poche-dakas ; 
and  you'll  be  a  wiser  man  before  you're  older  by 
many  days.  In  this  little  village  you  have 
always  a  refuge,  no  matter  what  the  world  out- 
side may  do  to  you.  Nothing  that  you  could  do 
against  your  own  race  can  make  you  an  utter 
outcast,  for  here  are  your  brothers,  always  eager 
to  shelter  you.  If  you  owned  a  cow  and  lost  it,  a 
word  from  you  would  send  fifty  mounted  men 
scouring  the  hills  till  the  cow  had  been  found  and 
restored  to  you.  Will  the  people  of  your  own 
race  do  that?  If  the  forest  was  burning 
throughout  the  country,  rest  assured  your 
property  would  be  made  safe  before  your  brothers 
turned  their  efforts  to  protecting  the  homes  of 
other  white  men.  Is  it  trivial,  my  friend?" 

"No,"  said  Oliver  shortly. 

"You  have  been  greatly  honoured,"  she 
concluded.  "You  are  the  first  white  man  on 
record  who  has  been  adopted  by  the  Showut 
Poche-dakas  without  first  marrying  an  Indian 
girl.  And  even  then  they  must  win  out  in  the 
fire  dance.  If  they  fail,  their  brides  must  go 
away  with  them,  ostracized  from  their  people  for 
ever." 

"How  many  white  men  have  been  honoured 
with  membership?"  he  asked. 

<rVery  few.  Old  Dad  Sloan  was  over  and  saw 
the  dance.  He  always  attends  fiestas  if  some  one 


180       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

will  give  him  a  ride.  He  said  after  the  dance 
that  he  knew  of  only  three  white  men  before  you 
who  had  won  brotherhood,  though  he  had  seen  a 
dozen  or  more  try  for  it." 

"Did  he  mention  any  names?" 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "He*  mentioned  Old  Man 
Selden,  for  one." 

"Does  he  belong  to  the  tribe?"  cried  Oliver. 

"No,  he  fell  down  in  the  fire  dance.  He  had 
married  an  Indian  woman,  and  after  the  dance 
he  took  his  bride  away  with  him.  She  died  six 
months  afterward — pining  for  her  people,  it  was 
supposed." 

"And  who  else  did  he  speak  about?" 

"You  remember  the  name  of  Dan  Smeed,  of 
course." 

"  'Outlaw,  highwayman,  squawman,'  "  quoted 
Oliver,  trying  to  imitate  the  old  '49er's  quavery 
tones. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "He  conquered  the  fire  and 
was  admitted  to  full  brotherhood." 

"And  got  gems  for  his  bridle  conchas/'  Oliver 
added. 

Jessamy  nodded.  "And  in  some  mysterious 
manner  paved  the  way  for  you  to  become 
adopted  thirty  years  later." 

He  turned  and  looked  her  directly  in  the 
eyes.  "Was  Dan  Smeed  my  father?"  he  asked 
abruptly. 


A  GUEST  AT  THE  RANCHO         181 

Her  eyes  did  not  evade  Ms,  but  a  slow  flush 
mounted  to  her  cheeks. 

"I  think  we  may  safely  assume  that  that  is 
the  case,"  she  told  him  softly. 

Oliver  stared  at  the  beaten  ground  under  his 
feet.  "Outlaw — highwayman — squawman !"  he 
muttered. 

Quickly  she  rose  and  laid  a  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  "Don't!  Don't!"  she  pleaded  sym- 
pathetically. "Don't  think  of  that!  Wait!" 

"Wait?    Wait  for  what?" 

"Wait  till  the  Showut  Poche-dakas  have  taken 
you  into  full  confidence.  Wait  for  my  Hum- 
mingbird to  speak." 

Oliver  said  nothing. 

She  waited  a  little,  then  resumed  her  seat  and 
said: 

"And  the  next  man  that  Old  Dad  Sloan  men- 
tioned as  having  tried  the  fire  dance  was — guess 
who?" 

"The  mysterious  Bolivio." 

She  nodded  vigorously,  both  eyes  closed. 

"He  succeeded?" 

"He  did." 

"And  the  third  man  to  succeed  before  me?" 

"I  forget  the  name.  It  is  of  no  consequence 
so  far  as  our  mystery  is  concerned." 

"Your  mystery,  you  mean,"  he  laughed.  "I'm 
beginning  to  believe  you  know  all  about  it — all 


182       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

about  me,  about  my  father  and  his  young-man- 
hood days." 

"Oh,  no !"  she  quickly  protested. 

"But  you  know  more  than  I  do.  And  you  see 
fit  to  make  mystery  of  it  to  my  confusion." 

"Silly!  I'm  doing  nothing  of  the  sort.  I've 
positively  told  you  all  I  can." 

"Be  careful,  now!     Can,  will,  or  may?" 

"Don't  pin  me  down.  You  know  I'm  a  feeble 
dissembler." 

"You've  told  me  all  you  may,  then,"  he  said 
with  conviction. 

"Have  it  that  way  if  you  choose.  How  about 
some  breakfast? — and  then  your  triumphal  en- 
try into  the  festivities?" 

"I  hate  to  show  myself — actually." 

"Pooh!  I'm  disappointed  in  you.  Come  on 
— I've  ordered  breakfast  for  us  in  the  restau- 
rant booth.  Bed-hot  chili  dishes  and  bellota.  It 
should  be  ready  by  now." 

The  Showut  Poche-dakas,  at  least,  paid  very 
little  attention  to  Oliver  as  he  limped  from  the 
ramada  at  Jessamy's  side.  But  he  was  congrat- 
ulated by  white  men  on  every  hand,  among 
them  Mr.  Damon  Tamroy,  the  first  friend  he  had 
made  in  the  country. 

"I  wish  you  could  'a'  heard  what  Old  Dad 
Sloan  had  to  say  after  the  dance,"  was  Tamroy's 
greeting.  "The  dance  got  the  old  man  started, 


A  GUEST  AT  THE  RANCHO         183 

and  he  opened  up  a  little.  Selden  wasn't  about 
at  the  time,  and  Dad  said  that  once,  years  ago, 
Selden  married  a  squaw  and  made  a  try  at  the 
fire  dance.  There  was  two  dances  that  night, 
Old  Dad  said.  Selden's  partner,  too,  married 
an  Indian  girl,  and  both  of  'ein  danced.  Sel- 
den's partner  won  out,  and  was  made  a  member 
o'  the  tribe;  but  Selden  fell  down/' 

"Did  you  get  this  partner's  name?"  asked 
Oliver. 

"Le's  see — what  was  the  name  Dad  said?" 

"Smeed?"  asked  Oliver. 

"That's  it.  Dave  Smeed.  No — Dan  Smeed. 
This  Smeed  lived  with  the  tribe  afterwards,  it 
seems,  but  Selden  and  his  girl  beat  it,  accord  in' 
to  the  rules,  and — " 

"Sh !"  warned  Oliver.  "Here  comes  Old  Man 
Selden  now." 

The  old  monarch  of  the  hills  strode  straight 
up  to  them,  rowels  whirring,  chaps  whistling. 

"Howdy,  Mr.  Drew — howdy!"  he  boomed. 
"Howdy,  Tamroy."  He  extended  a  horny  hand 
to  each. 

"Some  dance,  as  they  say — some  dance,"  he 
went  on  admiringly,  and  there  was  almost  a 
smile  on  his  stern  features.  "The  boys  was  bet- 
tin'  on  how  it  would  come  out.  The  odds  was 
ag'in  ye,  Mr.  Drew.  But  I  told  'em  ye'd  hold 
out.  I  been  through  the  mill  myself.  Might 


184       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

as  well  own  up,  since  everybody  knows  it  now 
—and  that  I  danced  to  a  fare-you-well,  but  fell 
down  hard.  When  ye  gonta'  pull  yer  freight, 
Mr.  Drew?" 

"I  thought  of  riding  home  today,"  said  Oliver. 

"I  was  just  talkin'  to  Jess'my,"  Selden  con- 
tinued. "Her  and  me  concluded  this  here'd  be 
a  good  time  to  invite  ye  over  to  get  acquainted. 
Can't  ye  ride  to  Poison  Oak  Ranch  with  us  just 
as  well  as  ye  can  ride  on  home?"  He  tried  to 
grin,  but  the  effort  seemed  to  cause  pain. 

Toward  them  Oliver  saw  Jessamy  walking. 
He  always  had  admired  her  long,  confident 
stride,  and  he  watched  her  throughout  the  brief 
space  allowed  him  by  courtesy  to  study  his  an- 
swer to  her  step-father.  Then  he  caught  her  eye. 
She  began  nodding  vigorously. 

"I  should  have  watered  my  garden  before  com- 
ing to  the  fiesta,"  he  told  the  old  man.  "I'm 
afraid  it  will  suffer  if  I  don't  get  back  to  it 
directly.  But—" 

"Oh,  she'll  stand  it  another  day.  Folks  irri- 
gate too  much,  anyway.  Ride  home  with  us  to- 
day and  stay  all  night." 

"I  thank  you,  I'm  sure,"  said  Oliver. 

"Yes,  do  come,  Mr.  Drew,"  put  in  Jessamy  as 
she  reached  the  group. 

"Just  so!"  added  Selden. 

And  so  it  was  arranged. 


A  GUEST  AT  THE  RANCHO        185 

The  four  stood  in  conversation.  Over  the 
girl's  shoulder  Oliver  now  saw  Digger  Foss  and 
two  of  the  men  who  had  ridden  with  Selden  the 
day  he  called  at  the  cabin.  They  were  staring 
at  their  chief  and  Jessamy.  A  glowering  look 
was  on  the  face  of  at  least  one  of  them,  and  that 
one  was  the  halfbreed,  Digger  Foss. 

He  stood  with  feet  planted  far  apart,  his  fists 
on  his  hips — squat,  his  bullet  head  juked  for- 
ward aggressively,  his  Mongolic  black  eyes  glit- 
tering. A  sneer  curled  his  lips.  He  nodded 
now  and  then  as  one  or  the  other  of  his  compan- 
ions spoke  to  him,  but  he  did  not  reply  and  did 
not  remove  his  steadfast  glance  from  the  group 
of  which  Oliver  made  one. 

"They's  a  boss  race  comin'  off  in  a  little," 
Selden  was  saying.  "We'll  stay  for  that,  then 
throw  on  the  saddles  and  cut  the  dust  for  the 
rancho." 

Here  Foss,  with  a  shrug  of  his  wide,  strong 
shoulders,  turned  away  and  disappeared  in  the 
crowd,  his  companions  following  at  his  heels. 

Presently  Selden  and  Tamroy  left  Jessamy 
and  Oliver  together. 

"What's  the  idea?"  Oliver  asked  her. 

"It's  quite  apparent  that  he  wants  to  be 
friendly  with  you,"  she  pointed  out. 

"It's  just  as  well,  of  course,"  said  he.  "But 
I  can't  fathom  it.  And  at  least  one  of  the  Poi- 


186       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

son  Oakers  doesn't  approve.  I  just  saw  Digger 
Foss  glowering  at  us  from  behind  Old  Man 
Selden's  back." 

Jessamy  elevated  her  dark  eyebrows.  "No, 
he  wouldn't  approve,"  she  declared.  "That's 
merely  because  of  me,  I  guess.  Well,  we  can't 
help  that.  It's  your  part  to  play  up  to  Old  Man 
Selden  and  find  out  what  is  the  cause  of  his  sud- 
den change  of  heart  toward  you." 

"It's  my  riding  outfit,"  he  averred.  "That, 
and  the  fact  that  I've  danced  the  fire  dance. 
I'm  gradually  picking  up  a  thread  here  and 
there.  By  the  way,  you  neglected  to  tell  me  this 
morning,  when  we  were  on  the  subject,  that  Dan 
Smeed's  partner  was  none  other  than  Old  Man 
Selden." 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly.  "I  see  that  Mr. 
Damon  Tamroy  is  in  character  today.  He  does 
love  to  talk,  doesn't  he?" 

"You  knew  it,  then?" 

She  hesitated.  "Yes— Old  Dad  Sloan  let  it  out 
last  night,"  she  admitted.  "I  think  he  would 
have  told  me  as  much  the  day  you  and  I  called 
on  him  if  he  hadn't  thought  it  might  hurt  my 
feelings.  I  don't  think  it  was  his  forgetfulness 
that  made  him  trip  over  the  subject  that  day." 

"But  if  he  mentioned  it  in  your  presence  after 
the  fire  dance,  he  must  have  forgotten  that  you 
are  vitally  interested." 


A  GUEST  AT  THE  RANCHO         187 

Her  long  black  lashes  hid  her  eyes  for  an  in- 
stant. "That's  true,"  she  admitted. 

Oliver  smiled  grimly  to  himself.  A  lover 
would  have  small  excuse  for  distrusting  this 
girl,  he  thought,  for  deception  was  not  in  her. 
A  little  later  he  left  her  and  sought  out  Damon 
Tamroy  again. 

"Just  a  question,"  he  began:  "You  know  I'm 
seeking  information  of  a  peculiar  character  in 
this  country;  so  don't  think  me  impertinent. 
You  said  that  Old  Man  Selden  wasn't  about 
when  Dad  Sloan  spoke  of  him  as  having  been 
the  partner  of  Dan  Smeed." 

Tamroy  nodded.  "He'd  gone  to  bed  in  one  o' 
the  ramadas"  he  said. 

"Did  Jessamy  Selden  overhear  Old  Dad  Sloan 
when  he  told  that?" 

"No,  she  wasn't  there  either,"  replied  Tamroy. 
"I  reckon  she'd  gone  to  bed  too." 

"Thank  you,"  Oliver  returned. 

He  knew  now  that  Jessamy  Seldon  had  merely 
been  repeating  some  one  else's  version  of  Dad 
Sloan's  disclosures.  He  knew  that  she  had  been 
aware  all  along  that  Dan  Smeed,  his  father,  had 
been  the  partner  of  Adam  Selden.  Had  she 
known  it,  though,  the  day  she  questioned  the  pa- 
triarch? It  had  seemed  that  she  was  trying  her 
utmost  to  make  him  mention  the  name  of  Dan 
Smeed's  partner.  Perhaps  she  had  felt  safe  in 


188       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  belief  that,  out  of  consideration  for  her  feel- 
ings, Dad  Sloan  would  not  couple  her  step- 
father's name  with  that  of  a  "highwayman,  out- 
law, and  squawman"  who,  he  had  said,  was  a 
"bad  egg." 

Oliver  was  beginning  to  believe  that  Jessamy 
Selden  at  that  very  moment  knew  the  question 
that  had  puzzled  Peter  Drew  for  thirty  years, 
and  what  the  answer  to  it  should  be.  He  be- 
lieved that  Jessamy  had  known  just  who  he  was, 
and  why  he  had  come  into  the  Clinker  Creek 
Country,  the  day  she  rode  down  to  make  his  ac- 
quaintance. It  seemed  that  she  had  considered 
it  a  part  of  her  life's  work  to  seek  him  out. 
Later,  she  had  worried  a  little  for  fear  he  might 
think  her  bold  in  riding  to  his  cabin  as  she  had 
done. 

She  had  not  been  seeking  his  companionship 
because  she  liked  him,  then.  There  was  some 
ulterior  motive  that  was  governing  her  actions. 
In  him  personally,  perhaps,  she  had  no  interest 
whatever.  There  was  some  secret  connected 
with  Old  Man  Selden,  and  it  dated  back  to  the 
days  when  Selden  and  Oliver  Drew's  father  were 
partners,  and  had  both  married  Indian  girls. 
Jessamy  had  stumbled  on  this,  and  when  Oliver 
came  she  had  known  the  reason  that  brought 
him,  and  had  made  haste  to  ally  herself  with 
him  in  order  to  carry  out  whatever  she  had  in 


A  GUEST  AT  THE  RANCHO         189 

mind.  It  was  this  that  had  kept  her  in  such 
close  touch  with  him — not  friendship  for  Oliver 
himself. 

Oliver  brooded.  The  thought  hurt  him.  The 
damage  had  been  done.  He  had  learned  all  this 
too  late.  He  loved  her  now,  and  wanted  her 
more  than  he  wanted  anything  else  in  life.  She 
knew  he  loved  her.  She  must  know  that  he  was 
not  the  sort  to  tell  her  what  he  had  told  her  if 
he  had  not  meant  it,  and  to  grasp  her  in  his 
arms  and  kiss  her,  even  under  the  strange  con- 
dition in  which  the  scene  had  occurred.  Not  a 
word  had  passed  between  them  regarding  that 
episode  since  he  had  blushingly  apoligized  for 
his  behaviour.  She  had  taken  it  quite  serenely, 
as  she  seemed  to  take  most  things  in  life,  and 
had  displayed  no  confusion  when  next  they  met. 

"You  look  so  funny,"  she  remarked  when  he  at 
last  sought  her  out  after  the  pony  race.  "Is 
anything  the  matter?" 

"Nothing  at  all,"  he  told  her.  "I'm  going  for 
our  caballos  now.  Selden  and  the  boys  are  sad- 
dling up.  I  suppose  we'll  all  ride  together." 

A  little  later  he  shook  the  withered  hand  of 
Chupurosa  Hatchinguish  and  bade  him  good-bye 
in  Spanish.  The  chief  of  the  Showut  Poche- 
dakas  called  him  brother,  and  patted  his  back  in 
a  fatherly  manner  as  he  followed  him  to  the  door 
of  his  hovel.  But  he  made  no  mention  of  a  fu- 


190       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

ture  meeting,  and  said  nothing  more  than 
"brother"  to  indicate  that  a  new  relation  existed 
between  them. 

Oliver  led  Poche  and  White  Ann  to  Jessamy, 
and  they  swung  into  the  saddles  and  galloped  to 
where  Old  Man  Selden,  Hurlock,  and  Bolar  were 
awaiting  them  in  the  dusty  road. 

Hours  later  the  little  party  of  five  rode  over 
the  baldpate  hill,  then  in  single-file  formation 
descended  by  the  steep  trail  to  the  bed  of  the 
American  River.  A  half-hour  afterward  they 
entered  the  cup  in  the  mountainside,  and  Oliver 
Drew  looked  for  the  first  time  upon  the  head- 
quarters of  the  Poison  Oakers. 

The  girl,  Selden,  and  Oliver  left  their  saddles 
at  the  door,  and  the  boys  rode  on  and  led  their 
horses  to  the  corrals.  Oliver  was  conducted 
into  the  immense  main  room  of  the  old  log 
house,  where  he  was  presented  by  the  girl  to  her 
mother. 

The  afternoon  was  nearly  gone,  and  the  two 
women  at  once  began  preparing  supper,  while 
Old  Man  Selden  and  his  guest  sat  and  smoked 
near  a  window  flooded  with  the  reflection  of  the 
sunset  glow  on  fleecy  clouds  above  the  canon. 

Selden's  talk  was  of  cows  and  grazing  condi- 
tions and  allied  topics.  Oliver  Drew,  half  lis- 
tening and  putting  in  a  stray  comment  now  and 


A  GUEST  AT  THE  RANCHO         191 

then,  watched  Jessamy  in  a  role  which  was  new 
to  him. 

She  had  put  on  a  spotless  red-checkered  ging- 
ham dress  that  fitted  perfectly,  and  revealed 
slim,  rounded,  womanly  outlines  which  are  the 
heritage  of  strength  and  perfect  health.  Her 
black  hair  was  coiled  loosely  on  top  of  her  head, 
and  a  large  red  rose  looked  as  if  Nature  had  de- 
signed it  to  splash  its  vivid  colour  against  that 
ebony  background.  With  long,  sure  strides 
this  girl  of  the  mountains  moved  silently  about 
from  the  great  glossy  range  to  the  work  table, 
washing  crisp  lettuce,  deftly  beheading  snappy 
radishes,  her  slim  fingers  now  white  with  dough 
and  flour,  or  stirring  with  a  large  spoon  in  some 
steaming  utensil  over  the  fire.  An  extra  fine 
dinner  was  in  progress  of  preparation  in  honour 
of  the  Seldens'  guest;  yet  the  girl  worked  se- 
renely and  swiftly,  with  not  a  false  move,  not  a 
flutter  of  excitement,  never  gathering  so  much 
as  a  spot  on  her  crisp,  stiff  dress,  always  sure  of 
herself,  master  of  her  diversified  tasks.  Was 
this  the  girl  that  an  hour  before  he  had  seen  so 
gracefully  astride  in  a  fifty-pound  California 
saddle,  her  slim  legs  covered  by  scarred,  fringed 
chaps,  her  black  hair  streaming  to  the  bottom 
of  her  saddle  skirts  in  two  long,  thick  braids? 
There  was  a  desperate  tugging  at  the  heart- 


192       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

strings  of  Oliver  Drew.  He  knew  now  that  if 
he  failed  to  win  this  girl  it  were  better  for  him 
had  he  not  been  born.  And  again  and  again 
she  had  sought  him  out  for  some  obscure  reason 
in  no  way  connected  with  a  desire  for  his  com- 
panionship. He  thought  again  of  the  episode  on 
the  hill  after  the  rattlesnake  bite,  and  he  grew 
sick  at  heart  at  remembrance  of  the  feel  of  those 
soft,  firm  lips. 

When  they  arose  from  the  bounteous  meal 
Selden  said  to  his  guest: 

"It's  still  light  outdoors.  Wanta  look  over 
the  ranch  a  bit?" 

They  two  strolled  out  to  the  stables  and  talked 
horses  and  saddles.  They  looked  perfunctorily 
over  the  green  young  fruit  in  the  orchard,  and 
Selden  showed  Oliver  the  new  pipe  line  which 
now  carried  spring  water  into  all  three  of  the 
living  houses.  They  killed  time  till  late  twi- 
light, and  as  one  by  one  the  stars  came  out  the 
old  man  led  the  way  to  a  prostrate  pine  at  the 
edge  of  a  fern  patch.  On  it  they  seated  them- 
selves. 

"They  was  little  matter  I  wanted  to  talk  to 
you  about,"  said  Selden  half  apologetically. 
"Le's  have  a  smoke  and  see  if  we  can't  come  to 
an  understandin'.  Just  so !  Just  so !" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  GIRL  IN  RED 

JESSAMY  SELDEN  finished  washing  and 
drying  the  supper  dishes.  Then  she  hur- 
ried to  her  room  and  slipped  into  a  red- 
silk  dress,  by  no  means  out  of  date,  silk  stock- 
ings, and  high-heeled  pumps  with  large  shell 
buckles.  A  few  deft  pats  and  her  rich  hair 
suited  her,  and  the  red  rose  glowed  against  the 
black  distractingly.  She  spun  round  and  round 
before  the  mirror  of  her  plain  little  dresser,  one 
set  of  knuckles  at  her  waist,  like  a  Spanish 
dancer,  her  face  trained  over  her  shoulder  at  her 
reflection  in  the  glass.  There  was  a  mischievous 
gleam  in  her  jetty  eyes  as  she  reached  the  con- 
clusion that  she  was  all  right.  Just  a  hint  of 
heightened  colour  showed  in  her  cheeks  when 
she  started  for  the  living  room. 

Old  Man  Selden  had  not  yet  returned  with  the 
guest  of  the  house.  The  trace  of  a  pucker  of 
disappointment  came  between  her  eyes,  then  she 
was  serene  again  as  she  lighted  coal-oil  lamps 
and  sat  down  with  a  book.  She  was  alone  in 
the  great  rough-walled  room,  like  a  gorgeous 

193 


194       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

flower  in  a  weather-beaten  box.  Her  mother 
was  dressing — one  dressed  after  dinner  instead 
of  for  dinner  in  the  House  of  Selden.  Bolar 
and  Moffat  presumably  had  gone  to  sit  and  look 
at  their  saddles  while  daylight  lasted,  since  com- 
ing night  forbade  them  to  mount  and  ride. 

Minutes  passed.  Jessamy  stared  at  the  open 
book  in  her  hands,  but  had  not  read  a  word. 
Why  was  Old  Man  Selden  keeping  their  guest 
out  there  in  the  night?  A  girlish  pout  which 
might  have  surprised  Oliver  Drew,  had  he  seen 
it,  puckered  her  lips.  The  girl  looked  down  at 
her  red-silk  dress  and  the  natty  buckles  on  her 
French-heel  pumps,  and  the  pout  grew  more  pro- 
nounced. 

She  went  out  doors,  but  no  sound  came  to  her 
save  the  intimate  night  sounds  of  the  wilder- 
ness. 

"Darn  the  luck!"  she  cried  in  exasperation, 
her  serenity  for  once  completely  unavailing. 

Five  minutes  later  she  stepped  from  the  gor- 
geous dress  with  a  sigh  of  resignation.  She 
kicked  off  the  pumps  and  pulled  on  her  morocco- 
top  riding  boots.  She  donned  shirt  and  riding 
skirt,  and  slipped  out  by  her  own  door  into  the 
young  night. 

Cautiously  she  approached  the  stables  and 
corrals,  but  found  nobody.  Lights  gleamed 


THE  GIRL  IN  RED  195 

in  the  windows  of  Hurlock's  and  Winthrop's 
cabins,  and  from  the  latter  came  the  doleful 
strains  of  Bolar's  accordion.  She  doubted  if 
Selden  and  Oliver  were  in  either  of  these 
houses. 

She  walked  up  the  hill  toward  the  spring,  and 
presently  heard  the  bass  boom  of  Old  Man 
Selden's  voice. 

A  little  later,  flat  on  the  ground,  she  was  wrig- 
gling her  way  through  tall  ferns  toward  two  in- 
distinct figures  seated  on  a  fallen  pine.  Like  an 
Indian  she  crept  on  silently,  till  by  and  by  she 
lay  quite  still,  close  enough  to  hear  every  word 
that  passed  between  the  men  who  sat  in  front 
of  her.  And  her  conscience  seemed  not  to 
trouble  her  at  all. 

It  had  been  practicable  to  come  to  a  pause  at 
some  little  distance  from  the  two,  for  their 
voices  carried  a  long  way  through  the  tranquil 
wilderness  night.  Behind  her  and  up  the  hill 
the  frogs  were  croaking  at  the  spring.  Their 
horse-fiddling  ceased  abruptly,  as  if  they  had, 
been  suddenly  disturbed,  and  it  was  not  imme- 
diately continued.  Trained  to  read  a  meaning 
in  Nature's  signs,  she  wondered  at  this;  then 
presently  she  heard  a  stealthy  step  between  her 
and  the  spring. 

Lifting   her   head   and   shoulders   above   the 


fronded  plants,  she  saw  a  dark,  crouched  shape 
approaching  warily.  Some  one  had  walked 
past  the  spring  and  disturbed  the  croaking  choir. 
She  ducked  low  and  waited  breathlessly,  hoping 
that  this  second  would-be  eavesdropper,  whoever 
he  might  be,  would  not  come  upon  her  engaged 
in  a  like  pursuit.  At  the  same  time  she  was 
trying  to  hear  what  Selden  was  saying  to  Oliver 
Drew. 

It  seemed  from  Old  Adam's  slightly  hesitat- 
ing manner  that  he  was  as  yet  not  well  launched 
on  the  subject  that  had  caused  him  to  pilot 
Oliver  to  this  lonely  spot.  He  said : 

"I  reckon  they  told  ye  ye  wouldn't  be  welcome 
down  on  the  Old  Ivison  Place.  Didn't  some  of 
'em  say,  now,  that  a  gang  called  the  Poison 
Oakers  might  try  to  drive  ye  out? — if  I'm  not 
too  bold  in  askin'." 

"Yes,"  said  the  voice  of  Oliver  Drew. 

"Uh-huh!  I  thought  as  much.  Well,  Mr. 
Drew,  ye  got  to  make  allowances  for  ol'-timers 
in  the  hills.  We  get  set  in  our  ways,  as  the 
fella  says;  and  I  reckon  we  don't  like  outsiders 
to  come  in  any  too  well. 

"But  anybody  with  any  savvy  oughta  know  its 
different  in  a  case  like  yours.  Why,  what  little 
feed  we'd  get  offen  your  little  piece,  if  you 
wasn't  there,  wouldn't  amount  to  the  price  of  a 
saddle  string.  It  was  plumb  loco  for  any  one 


THE  GIRL  IN  RED  197 

to  tell  ye  we'd  raise  a  rumpus  'bout  ye  bein' 
down  there." 

"I  thought  about  the  same,"  observed  Oliver 
Drew  quietly. 

There  came  a  distinct  pause  in  the  dialogue. 
Once  more  Jessamy  straightened  her  arms  and 
pushed  head  and  shoulders  above  the  ferns. 
The  person  who  had  disturbed  the  frogs  was  no- 
where to  be  seen.  He  too,  perhaps,  had  taken 
up  a  lizardlike  progress  through  the  ferns,  and 
was  now  listening  to  all  that  was  being  said  by 
Oliver  and  Selden. 

She  flattened  herself  again,  and  held  one  hand 
behind  her  ear  to  catch  every  word. 

"Yes,  sir,  plumb  loco,"  Old  Man  Selden  reiter- 
ated. "And  they  ain't  no  reason  on  earth  why 
you  and  us  can't  be  the  best  o'  friends.  That's 
what  we  oughta  be,  seein'  we're  pretty  near 
neighbours." 

"I'm  sure  I'm  perfectly  willing  to  be  friendly, 
Mr.  Selden." 

"Course  ye  are.  Just  so!  An'  so  are  we. 
And  listen  here,  Mr.  Drew:  Don't  ye  put  too 
much  stock  in  that  there  Poison  Oaker  racket." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  understand  that." 

"Well,"  drawled  Selden,  "they  ain't  any  such 
thing  as  a  Poison  Oaker  Gang.  That  there's  all 
hot  air.  It's  true  that  Obed  Pence  and  Jay 
Muenster  and  Buchanan  and  Allegan  and  Foss 


198       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

run  what  cows  they  got  with  ourn,  and  they're 
pretty  good  friends  o'  my  boys  an'  me.  But  as 
fer  us  bein'  a  gang — why,  they's  nothin'  to  it. 
Nothin'  to  it  a-tall !  Just  because  we  use  a  poi- 
son-oak leaf  for  our  brand — why,  that's  what  got 
'em  to  callin'  us  the  Poison  Oakers.  And  when 
anything  mean  is  done  in  this  country,  why,  they 
gotta  hang  it  onto  somebody — and  as  a  lot  of 
'em  don't  like  me  and  my  friends,  why,  they 
hang  it  onto  us  and  call  us  the  Poison  Oakers. 
Now  that  there  ain't  right  and  just,  is  it,  Mr. 
Drew?" 

"When  you  put  it  that  way,"  Oliver  evaded, 
"I  should  say  that  it  is  not." 

"No,  sir,  it  ain't — not  a-tall !  An'  I'm  glad  ye 
understand  and  ain't  got  no  hard  feelin's." 

There  was  another  long  pause.  Fragrant  to- 
bacco smoke  floated  to  Jessamy's  nostrils. 

"If  I  ain't  too  bold  in  askin',  Mr  Drew — what 
was  ol'  Damon  Tamroy  fillin'  yer  ear  with  about 
me  today?" 

"He  was  telling  me  how  Old  Dad  Sloan  had 
spoken  of  your  having  once  danced  the  fire 
dance." 

"Uh-huh !  Just  so !  Some  o'  my  friends  over- 
heard Old  Dad  spoutin'  about  it  after  I'd  hit 
the  feathers.  Well,  I  don't  reckon  I  care  any. 
It's  nothin'  to  try  to  hide.  Was  that  all  Tam- 
roy had  to  say?" 


THE  GIRL  IN  RED  199 

Jessamy  could  imagine  on  Oliver  Drew's  lips 
the  grave,  half-whimsical  smile  that  she  had 
seen  twitching  them  so  often.  She  waited 
eagerly  for  his  reply. 

"I  think  that  the  subject  you  mention  is  all 
that  he  talked  to  me  about,"  it  came  at  last. 

"Just  so!  Just  so!"  muttered  Selden.  "But 
didn't  he  say  as  how  others  had  danced  the  fire 
dance  besides  me  and  you?" 

"Yes,  he  mentioned  others." 

"Just  so !  And  who,  now — if  I  ain't  too  bold 
in  askin'." 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Oliver  after  a  pause. 
"Some  other  man's  name  was  mentioned.  A 
short  name,  if  I  remember  correctly." 

"Uh-huh !     Plumb  forget  her,  eh?" 

"It  seems  to  me  it  was  Smeed,  or  something 
like  that.  Yes — Dan  Smeed." 

Silence.  Again  tobacco  smoke  was  wafted 
over  the  ferns 

"Dan  Smeed,  eh?"  ruminated  Selden  finally. 
"Mr.  Drew,  did  ye  ever  hear  that  name  before 
Damon  Tamroy  said  it  to  ye?" 

Another  thoughtful  intermission ;  then — 

"Yes,  I  had  heard  it  before." 

"Just  so!  Just  so!  And  if  I  ain't  too  bold 
in  askin' — just  where,  Mr.  Drew?" 

"Why,  I  heard  it  first  from  Old  Dad  Sloan 
himself.  Miss  Selden  and  I  rode  over  to  his 


200       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

cabin  one  morning,  and  we  got  him  to  talking 
of  the  days  of  'Forty-nine.  He  can  be  quite  in- 
teresting when  he  doesn't  wander." 

"Uh-huh !  And  ye  say  ye  heard  the  name  Dan 
Smeed  over  to  Old  Dad  Sloan's  fer  the  first 
time?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"The  first  time  in  yer  life,  Mr.  Drew?" 

"Yes.     I  had  never  heard  of  it  until  then." 

A  short,  low  snort  from  Selden.  Jessamy 
knew  it  well.  It  signified:  "I  don't  believe 
you !" 

Said  Selden  presently :  "Well,  then,  I'm  gonta 
put  another  question  to  ye,  Mr.  Drew.  I  don't 
want  ye  to  think  I'm  tryin'  to  butt  in,  as  the 
fella  says.  But  s'long's  Tamroy  was  talkin' 
about  me,  I  reckon  it's  right  an'  just  that  I 
should  be  interested.  Now,  what  did  Tamroy 
tell  ye  Old  Dad  Sloan  had  to  say  'bout  this  here 
Dan  Smeed  and  me?" 

"He  said  that  you  and  Dan  Smeed  were  one 
time  partners." 

"Oh!  Uh-huh!  Just  so!  Partners,  eh?  And 
was  that  the  first  time  ye  ever  heard  that,  Mr. 
Drew?" 

"Yes,  the  first  time,"  said  Oliver  patiently. 

Again  that  peculiar  little  snort  of  Selden. 

"How  ye  gettin'  along  down  to  the  Old  Ivi- 


THE  GIRL  IN  RED  201 

son  Place,  Mr.  Drew?"  was  Selden's  abrupt  shift 
of  the  conversation. 

"Oh,  my  garden  is  fine.  And  I  have  two  colo- 
nies of  bees  storing  up  honey  for  me.  Besides, 
I've  located  another  colony  up  in  the  hills,  and 
will  get  them  as  soon  as  I  can  get  around  to  it.'' 

"But  ye  can't  live  on  garden  truck  an'  honey !" 

"I  suppose  I  should  have  some  locusts  to  go 
along  with  them,"  laughed  Oliver;  but  his  flight 
was  lost  on  Old  Man  Selden.  "You  forget, 
though,"  the  speaker  added,  "that  I  am  writing 
for  farm  journals.  I've  sold  three  little  articles 
since  I  settled  down  there.  I'll  get  along,  if  my 
luck  holds  out." 

"Oh,  yes — ye'll  get  along.  I  ain't  worryin' 
'bout  that.  I'll  bet  ye  could  draw  a  check  right 
this  minute  that'd  pay  fer  every  acre  o'  land 
'tween  here  an'  Calamity  Gap." 

"I'll  bet  I  couldn't!"  Oliver  positively  denied. 

Old  Man  Selden  chuckled  craftily.  "Ye're 
pretty  foxy,  Mr.  Drew — pretty  foxy!"  He  had 
lowered  his  deep  tones  until  Jessamy  could 
barely  distinguish  words.  "Yes,  sir — mighty 
foxy !  A  garden  an'  bees  an'  writin'  for  a  story 
paper,  eh?  Oh,  ye'll  get  along.  I'll  tell  a  man 
ye'll  get  along!" 

"I  really  have  no  other  source  of  revenue,  Mr. 
Selden."  * 


202       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Just  so!  I  understand.  Well,  Mr.  Drew, 
maybe  I  been  a  mite  too  bold;  but  I'll  step  in 
another  inch  or  two  and  say  this :  When  ye  need 
any  help  down  there  on  the  Old  Ivison  Place, 
just  send  word  to  Dan  Smeed's  partner.  D'ye 
understand?" 

"I  thank  you,  I'm  sure,"  Oliver  told  him  dryly. 
"But  really  I  don't  think  I'll  need  any  help. 
My  garden  is  so  small  that — " 

"Just  so !  Still,  ye  never  can  tell  when  a  foxy 
fella  like  you'll  need  help.  And  Dan  Smeed's 
partner'll  be  always  ready  to  help.  Just  remem- 
ber that." 

"Help   with   what?"   asked   Oliver   testingly. 

"In  watchin'  the  dead,"  was  Selden's  surpris- 
ing answer,  spoken  in  a  crafty  half-whisper. 

"In  watching  the  dead!"  cried  his  listener. 
"Why,  I—" 

"Le's  go  in  to  the  womenfolks  now,"  inter- 
rupted Selden.  "And  keep  thinkin'  over  this, 
Mr.  Drew.  Always  ready  to  help — d'ye  savvy? 
And  don't  ye  pay  no  attention  to  that  there  sup- 
posed gang  that  they  call  the  Poison  Oakers. 
They  ain't  no  such  gang.  But  if  anybody  does 
try  to  bother  ye,  tell  me.  Get  me?  Tell  Dan 
Smeed's  partner.  He'll  help  ye  watch  the  dead." 

"You're  talking  in  riddles,"  Oliver  snorted. 
"I  don't  understand — " 

"Oh,  yes,  ye  do!    Ye  savvy,  all  right.    Ye're 


THE  GIRL  IN  RED  203 

foxy,  Mr.  Drew.  I'll  say  no  more  just  now. 
But  when  ye  need  my  help.  .  .  ." 

Their  voices  trailed  off. 

Once  again  the  girl's  supple  body  rose  from 
the  hips,  and  she  searched  the  ferns  on  every 
side.  For  several  minutes  she  lay  quite  still  in 
the  same  position.  Then,  perhaps  fifty  feet  on 
her  left,  a  head  rose  above  the  tall  fronds,  and 
then  a  body  followed  it.  Next  instant  a  dark 
figure  was  hurrying  back  toward  the  spring. 

Jessamy  waited  until  sight  and  sound  of  it 
were  no  more,  then  rose  and  ran  with  all  her 
might  toward  the  house. 

She  slipped  in  at  her  private  door,  hustled  out 
of  her  clothes,  and  began  donning  her  gorgeous 
red  dress  again. 

"So  Old  Man  Selden  always  shoots  straight 
from  the  shoulder,  eh?"  she  muttered.  "Piffle! 
When  he  wants  to  be  he's  a  regular  Barkis-is- 
willin'!" 

In  the  midst  of  her  dressing  her  mother 
tapped. 

"Jessamy,  where  have  you  been?"  she  asked. 
"Mr.  Selden  and  Mr.  Drew  are  in  the  living 
room  now.  I've  knocked  twice,  but  you  didn't 
answer." 

"I  was  outdoors,"  Jessamy  replied.  "I'm 
dressing  now.  I'll  be  right  out." 

And    a   minute   or   two    later   Oliver   Drew 


204       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

gasped  and  his  blue  eyes  grew  wide  as  a  silk- 
garbed  figure,  with  a  red  rose  in  her  raven  hair, 
glided  toward  him. 

Yea,  even  as  the  girl  in  red  had  planned  that 
he  should  gasp! 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

SPIES 

SMITH,  the  shaggy,  mouse-coloured  burro, 
lifted  his  voice  in  that  sobbing  wail  of  wel- 
come which  has  caused  his  kind  to  be  des- 
ignated as  desert  canaries,  as  Oliver  rode  into 
the  pasture.  Smith's  was  a  gregarious  soul. 
To  be  left  entirely  alone  was  torture.  His  ears 
were  twelve  inches  long,  and  the  protuberances 
over  his  eyes  were  so  craggy  that  Oliver  had 
hesitated  between  the  names  of  Smith  and  Wil- 
liam Cullen  Bryant.  On  the  whole,  though, 
"Smith"  had  seemed  more  companionable. 

Oliver  loosed  Poche  to  console  the  lonesome 
heart  of  Smith  and  went  at  the  irrigating  of 
his  garden.  When  a  stream  of  water  was  trick- 
ling along  every  hoed  furrow  he  put  on  heavy 
hobnailed  laced-boots  and  went  into  the  hills  in 
search  of  his  third  bee  tree. 

It  seems  illogical  to  set  down  that  one  could 
live  for  nearly  two  months  on  forty  acres  of  land 
without  having  explored  every  square  foot  of  it. 
But  Oliver  had  not  trod  upon  at  least  two  thirds 
of  his  property.  Locked  chaparral  presents 

205 


206       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

many  difficulties.  Farmers  detest  it,  and  art- 
ists go  wild  over  it.  But  farmers  are  obliged 
to  sprawl  flat  and  crawl  through  it  occasion- 
ally, while  artists  sit  on  their  stools  at  a  dis- 
tance from  it  that  brings  out  all  the  alluring 
browns  and  yellows  and  greens  and  olives  of 
which  it  is  capable  under  the  magic  of  the  chang- 
ing sunlight. 

Oliver  had  seen  bees  darting  like  arrows  from 
the  flowers  in  the  creekbed  in  a  westerly  direc- 
tion, up  over  the  thickest  of  the  chaparral.  Up 
there  somewhere  was  another  colony  of  winged 
misers  and  their  hoarded  wealth  of  honey. 
Honey  was  bringing  a  good  price  just  then,  and 
a  merchant  at  Halfmoon  Flat  would  buy  it.  So 
now  the  beeman  climbed  the  hill  and  crawled 
into  the  chaparral  in  the  direction  the  insects 
had  flown. 

Scattered  here  and  there  through  the  dense 
thicket  were  pines  and  spruce  and  black  oak. 
In  one  of  these  trees  the  bees  must  have  their 
home ;  and  his  task  of  finding  it  was  not  entirely 
a  haphazard  quest.  When  he  crawled  to  an 
opening  in  the  bushes  he  would  climb  into  the 
crotch  of  one  of  them  and  locate  the  nearest  tree. 
Then,  flattening  himself  once  more,  he  would 
crawl  to  this  tree  and  look  for  a  hollow  for  the 
bees.  Finding  none,  he  would  locate  another 
tree  and  crawl  to  it. 


SPIES  207 

Thus  wearisomely  engaged  he  crawled  into  a 
depression  three  feet  deep  in  the  earth  beneath 
him.  This  allowed  him  to  sit  erect  for  the  first 
time  in  minutes,  and  he  availed  himself  of  the 
chance,  industriously  mopping  his  brow. 

Now,  Oliver  Drew  was  not  a  miner,  but  he  was 
a  son  of  the  outdoor  West  and  knew  at  once  that 
he  was  seated  in  an  ancient  prospect  hole. 
About  the  excavation  were  piled  the  dirt  and 
stones  that  had  been  shovelled  out. 

He  speculated  over  it.  For  all  he  knew,  it 
might  date  back  to  the  fascinating  days  of  '49. 
A  great  forest  of  pines  might  have  stood  here 
then.  Or  maybe  the  pines  had  been  burned 
away,  and  a  forest  of  gigantic  oaks  had  followed 
the  conifers.,  to  rear  themselves  majestically 
above  the  pigmies  that  delved,  oftimes  impo- 
tently,  for  the  glittering  yellow  treasure  at  their 
roots.  Or,  again,  the  prospect  hole  might  have 
been  dug  years  later,  after  the  oaks  had  disap- 
peared and  the  chaparral  had  claimed  the  land. 
There  was  no  way  of  telling,  for  every  decade 
or  so  forest  fires  swept  the  country  almost  clean, 
and  some  new  growth  superseded  the  old  in  Na- 
ture's endless  cycle. 

Fifty  feet  farther  on  he  plopped  into  a  second 
prospect  hole,  and  a  little  beyond  that  he  found 
a  third. 

He  noted  now  that  in  all  cases  no  chaparral 


208        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

grew  up  through  the  muck  that  had  been  thrown 
out.  This  would  seem  to  signify  that  the  work 
had  been  done  in  recent  years,  while  the  bushes 
that  now  claimed  the  land  still  grew  there.  He 
found  a  fourth  hole  soon,  and  near  it  were  man- 
zanita  stumps,  the  tops  of  which  had  been  cut 
off  with  an  ax. 

This  settled  it.  While  the  soil  might  show 
evidences  of  the  work  of  man  for  an  intermi- 
nable length  of  time,  the  roots  of  the  lopped-off 
manzanitas  would  rot  in  a  decade,  perhaps,  and 
freezing  weather  would  loosen  the  stumps  from 
their  moorings.  But  this  wood  was  still  sound. 
The  prospecting  had  been  done  not  many  years 
before.  And  who  had  been  prospecting  thus  on 
patented  land? 

When  he  had  wormed  his  way  to  the  crest  of 
a  hill  he  had  passed  about  twenty  of  these  shal- 
low holes.  Now,  at  the  top,  the  earth  had  been 
literally  gophered.  The  workings  here  looked 
newer  still;  and  presently  he  came  upon  evi- 
dence that  proved  work  had  been  done  not  longer 
than  a  year  before,  for  dry  leaves  still  clung  to 
the  tops  of  manzanita  bushes  that  had  been 
chopped  off  and  pitched  one  side. 

It  has  been  stated  that  he  was  not  a  miner. 
Still,  having  been  born  and  raised  in  a  mining 
country,  he  knew  something  of  the  geological 
formations  in  which  gold  ordinarily  is  found. 


SPIES  209 

He  was  in  a  gold  producing  country  now,  yet  the 
specimens  that  he  picked  up  near  the  prospect 
holes  proved  that  only  a  rank  tenderfoot  would 
have  searched  so  persistently  in  this  locality. 

He  picked  up  a  bit  of  white  substance  and 
gave  it  study.  It  resembled  lithia.  The  water 
of  his  spring  contained  a  trace  of  lithium  salts, 
according  to  the  analysis  furnished  him  by  the 
State  Agricultural  College,  to  which  he  had 
mailed  a  sample.  He  pocketed  the  specimen  for 
future  reference. 

As  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  this  hole,  with  his 
feet  in  it,  he  heard  a  rustling  in  the  bushes  close 
at  hand.  At  first  he  thought  it  might  be  caused 
by  a  jackrabbit ;  but  soon  it  became  certain  that 
some  heavier,  larger  body  was  making  its  way 
slowly  through  the  chaparral. 

A  coyote?    A  bobcat?    A  deer? 

He  carried  no  gun  today,  and  the  swift 
thought  of  a  mountain  lion  was  a  bit  unpleasant. 

He  quickly  slid  from  his  seat  and  stretched 
himself  on  the  ground  in  the  shallow  excavation. 
Oliver  was  an  ardent  student  of  nature,  and  he 
liked  nothing  better  than  secretly  to  watch  some 
wild  thing  as  it  moved  about  it  its  customary 
routine,  unconscious  of  the  gaze  of  human  eyes. 
Once  he  had  hidden  in  wild  grapevines  and 
watched  a  skunk  searching  for  bugs  along  a 
creekbed,  until  suddenly  the  moist  bank  cram- 


210       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

bled  beneath  him,  and  he  fell,  and — But  what 
followed  is  what  might  be  called  an  unsavory 
story. 

,  The  crackling,  scraping  sounds  drew  nearer, 
but  whatever  was  making  them  was  not  moving 
directly  toward  him.  They  ceased  abruptly, 
and  then  he  knew  that  the  man  or  animal  had 
reached  the  open  space  in  the  brush  in  which 
the  prospect  holes  were  situated. 

As  the  noises  were  not  continued,  he  began 
raising  himself  slowly,  until  he  was  able  to  look 
over  the  edge  of  the  hole. 

It  was  not  a  browsing  deer  nor  a  hunting 
coyote  upon  which  he  gazed.  A  squat,  dark 
man,  with  chaps  and  spurs  and  Stetson,  was 
making  his  way  across  the  open  space  to  the  con- 
tinuation of  the  chaparral  beyond  it.  His  eyes 
were  mere  slits,  black,  Mongolic. 

He  was  Digger  Foss,  the  half-white,  right- 
hand  man  of  Adam  Selden. 

The  progress  of  the  gunman  was  not  stealthy, 
for  undoubtedly  he  considered  himself  particu- 
larly safe  from  observation  up  here  in  the  wil- 
derness of  chaparral.  He  slouched  bow-leggedly 
across  the  break  in  the  thicket,  and  dropped  to 
hands  and  knees  when  he  reached  the  edge  of  it. 
He  disappeared  in  the  chaparral. 

The  general  direction  that  he  was  pursuing 
was  straight  toward  Oliver's  cabin.  Oliver  lay 


SPIES  211 

quite  still  and  listened  to  the  renewed  sounds  of 
his  progress  through  the  prickly  bushes. 

Then  once  more  they  stopped  suddenly. 
Oliver  knew  that  in  the  short  space  of  time 
elapsed  Digger  Foss  could  not  have  crawled  be- 
yond the  reach  of  his  hearing.  He  had  paused 
again. 

For  perhaps  five  minutes  he  listened,  but 
could  hear  no  further  sounds.  Then  from  not 
far  distant  there  came  the  familiar  clatter  of  a 
dry  pine  cone  in  the  manzanita  tops. 

A  moment  more  and  Oliver  was  smiling 
grimly.  For  Foss  had  suddenly  appeared  above 
the  tops  of  the  chaparral.  He  was  climbing  a 
giant  digger  pine,  which  only  a  short  time  before 
Oliver  had  investigated  as  the  possible  home  of 
the  bees  he  was  striving  to  find.  There  in  plain 
sight  the  halfbreed  was  climbing  like  a  bear 
from  limb  to  limb,  keeping  the  trunk  of  the  tree 
between  his  chunky  body  and  the  cabin  in  the 
valley. 

Presently  he  settled  astride  a  horizontal  bough 
on  Oliver's  side,  his  back  toward  the  watcher. 
He  adjusted  himself  as  comfortably  as  possible, 
and  then  there  appeared  in  his  hands  a  pair  of 
binoculars.  Leaning  around  the  tree  trunk, 
screened  by  the  digger  pine's  long,  smoke- 
coloured  needles,  he  focused  the  glasses  on  the 
cabin  down  below. 


212       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

It  looked  to  Oliver  Drew  as  if  this  were  not 
the  first  time  that  the  gunman  had  perched  him- 
self up  there  to  watch  proceedings  in  the  canon. 
There  had  been  no  hesitancy  in  his  selection  of 
a  tree  which  stood  in  such  a  position  that  other 
trees  would  not  obstruct  his  view  from  its 
branches,  no  studying  over  which  limb  he  might 
occupy  to  the  best  advantage. 

Vaguely  Oliver  wondered  how  many  times  he 
had  laboured  and  moved  about  down  below,  with 
the  keen,  black,  Chinese  eyes  fixed  on  him.  It 
was  not  a  comfortable  feeling,  by  any  means. 

Now,  though,  his  thoughts  were  taken  up  by 
the  problem  of  getting  away  unobserved  by  the 
spyglass  man.  Digger  Foss  was  not  a  hundred 
feet  from  where  Oliver  lay  and  watched  him. 
If  he  should  turn  for  an  instant  he  would  see 
Oliver  there,  flat  on  his  face  in  the  excavation, 
for  the  halfbreed's  perch  was  twenty  feet  above 
the  tops  of  the  chaparral. 

Oliver  had  decided  to  make  a  try  at  crawling 
on  up  the  hill  as  noiselessly  as  possible,  when 
new  and  far  slighter  sounds  came  to  his  ears. 
So  slight  they  were  indeed  that,  if  he  had  not 
been  close  to  the  earth,  he  might  not  have 
detected  them  at  all. 

But  no  bird  or  small  animal  could  be  respon- 
sible for  them,  for  they  were  continuous  and 


SPIES  213 

dragging.     Once  again  he  hugged  the  ground 
while  he  watched  and  waited. 

The  sounds  came  on — sounds  that  seemed  to 
be  the  result  of  some  one's  dragging  something 
carefully  over  the  shattered  leaves  on  the 
ground.  And  presently  there  hove  into  view  an- 
other human  being. 

He  was  an  Indian — a  Showut  Poche-daka. 
Oliver  remembered  his  swarthy  face,  his  inscru- 
table eyes.  He  had  been  pointed  out  to  him  at 
the  fiesta  by  Jessamy  as  the  champion  trailer 
of  all  the  Paubas,  of  which  the  Showut  Poche- 
daka  Tribe  was  a  sort  of  branch.  Often,  Jes- 
samy had  said,  this  Indian,  who  was  known  by 
the  odd  and  laughable  name  of  Tommy  My-Ma, 
had  been  employed  by  the  sheriff  of  the  county 
in  tracking  down  escaped  prisoners  or  fleeing 
transgressors  against  the  law. 

He  wore  no  hat.  He  was  barefooted.  His 
only  covering  seemed  to  be  a  pair  of  faded-blue 
overalls  and  a  colourless  flannel  shirt.  Neither 
did  he  carry  any  weapon,  so  far  as  Oliver  could 
see. 

His  progress  was  now  soundless  as  he  came 
from  the  chaparral,  flat  on  his  belly,  wriggling 
along  like  a  lizard  with  surprising  speed.  His 
black,  glittering  eyes  were  unquestionably  fixed 
with  rapt  intentness  on  the  man  aloft  in  the  dig- 


214       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

ger  pine;  and  by  reason  of  this  alone  he  did  not 
see  Oliver  Drew. 

His  movements  commenced  to  be  extraordi- 
nary. He  wriggled  himself  speedily  over  the 
unlittered  earth  and  made  no  sound.  There 
was  a  pile  of  dry  brush  at  one  edge  of  the  clear- 
ing, the  tops  of  the  bushes  that  had  been  cut  off 
to  facilitate  the  sinking  of  the  prospect  holes. 
Toward  this  Tommy  My-Ma  glided;  and  when 
he  reached  it  he  passed  out  of  sight  on  the  other 
side. 

Then  suddenly  he  reappeared  again.  In- 
stantly he  lowered  his  head  to  the  ground  at  the 
edge  of  the  pile  of  brush ;  then  swiftly  the  head 
and  shoulders  disappeared,  the  trunk  and  legs 
following.  For  a  second  Oliver  saw  the  bare 
brown  feet,  then  they  too  went  out  of  sight. 

Oliver  understood  the  disappearing  act  of 
Tommy  My-Ma,  he  thought.  The  pile  of  brush 
covered  another  of  the  prospect  holes,  and  into 
the  hole  the  Showut  Poche-daka  had  snaked 
himself.  It  seemed  that  he  too  had  sought  a 
hiding  place  often  frequented.  In  there  he 
perhaps  could  sit  erect  and,  screened  by  the  pile 
of  brush,  would  be  entirely  hidden,  while  he  him- 
self could  watch  the  spy  in  the  branches  of  the 
digger  pine.  For  that  he  was  in  turn  spying 
on  the  man  who  was  watching  Oliver's  cabin  Oli- 
ver did  not  for  a  moment  doubt. 


SPIES  215 

But  why  ?    That  was  another  matter ! 

He  was  quite  aware  of  his  own  unprotected 
position;  and  with  Tommy  My-Ma  now  hid- 
den in  the  brush  scarce  fifty  feet  away  from  him, 
he  dared  not  get  out  of  his  hole  and  try  to 
crawl  away. 

The  situation  struck  him  as  ridiculous  in  the 
extreme.  Foss  trying  to  spy  on  him;  Tommy 
My-Ma  spying  on  Foss — the  object  of  all  this 
intrigue,  Oliver  himself,  spying  on  both  of  them ! 

And  how  long  must  it  continue? 

The  only  sounds  now  were  the  soft  moaning 
of  the.  wind  through  the  needles  of  the  pines, 
and  from  afar,  occasionally,  the  clear,  cool  call 
of  a  valley  quail :  "Cut  that  out !  Cut  that  out !" 
The  sun  was  hot  on  the  resinous  needles  of  the 
pines,  and  the  smell  of  them  filled  the  air. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

CONTENTIONS 

TWO  horsemen  met  on  the  backbone  of 
the  ridge  that  separated  Clinker  Creek 
and  the  green  American. 

Obed  Pence  was  a  tall  individual  with  a  small 
mouth,  a  great  Roman  nose,  close-set  black  eyes 
over  which  black  brows  met  so  that  they  formed 
a  continuous  line,  and  large,  tangled  front  teeth. 

The  man  who  met  him  in  the  trail — a  boy 
who  had  just  turned  twenty-one — was  sandy- 
haired,  freckled,  snub-nosed,  and  blue-eyed. 
His  face  was  too  boyish  to  show  marked  wicked- 
ness, but  Chuck  Allegan  was  not  the  least  im- 
portant member  of  the  Poison  Oaker  Gang. 

"Howdy,  Pencie?"  he  drawled,  crooking  his 
leg  about  his  saddle  horn  as  his  black  horse 
stopped  to  rub  noses  with  the  bay  that  the  other 
rode. 

"Where  you  headin'  for?"  asked  Obed  Pence. 

"Down  toward  Lime  Rock.  There's  some 
cows  o'  mine  and  a  bunch  o'  calves  down  there. 
That  breechy  old  roan  devil  steered  'em  up  that- 
away.  She's  always  wanderin'  off  with  a  bunch 

216 


CONTENTIONS  217 

like  that.  Come  on  down  with  me — I  want  to 
move  'em  up  with  the  rest  o'  the  bunch. 
Soil's  thin  down  thataway,  an'  grass's  already 
gettin'  brown." 

"Any  o'  mine  in  that  bunch?" 

"I  dunno.  Like's  not.  Come  on — you  ain't 
got  nothin'  to  do." 

"Maybe  I  have  and  maybe  I  ain't,"  retorted 
Pence  half  truculently. 

"What  you  doin',  then?" 

"Watchin'  out  for  that  fella  Drew." 

"Who  told  you  to?    Old  Man?" 

Pence  spat  a  stream  of  tobacco  juice.  "Not 
a-tall,"  he  replied.  "I  guess  you  ain't  heard 
what's  new." 

"I  ain't  heard  nothin'  new.     Spring  it!" 

"Poss  is  the  one  told  me  to  keep  my  eye  on 
Drew.  Said  for  me  to  keep  to  this  ridge  over 
here  and  try  to  get  a  line  on  what  he's  up  to  if 
he  come  up  this  way.  Digger's  over  in  the  hills 
on  the  other  side  o'  the  canon,  watchin'.  He's 
got  glasses." 

"What's  the  good  o'  watchin'  this  guy?  Why 
don't  we  get  in  and  fire  'im  out  o'  the  country, 
like  we  said  we  was  goin'  to  do?" 

Obed  Pence's  irregular  teeth  twisted  off  an- 
other chew  of  tobacco. 

"That's  the  funny  part  of  it,"  he  observed. 
"Digger's  workin'  alone,  it  seems.  Old  Man 


218        THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

tells  him  not  to  bother  Drew  at  all.  Says  he'll 
tend  to  'im  'imself,  when  he  gets  'round  to  it. 
First  time  I  ever  saw  Old  Man  Selden  hang 
back  on  puttin'  a  bur  under  anybody's  tail  when 
he  wanted  to  get  rid  of  'im.  An'  now  he  passes 
the  word  for  nobody  to  bother  Drew  till  he  says 
to.  Digger  don't  like  it.  He's  sore  on  the  old 
man." 

"What'd  Digger  say?" 

"I  just  know  mostly  by  the  way  he  acts. 
There's  somethin'  funny  goin'  on.  Ever  since 
that  day  we  all  rode  down  to  Drew's  cabin  and 
heard  the  shot  inside,  Old  Man's  been  actin' 
funny.  Digger  an'  me  was  wonderin'  what 
them  two  was  talkin'  about  in  the  cabin,  that 
made  the  old  man  change  the  way  he  done. 
Why,  say,  he  went  down  there  to  scare  the  ticks 
outa  Drew  that  day.  And  after  that,  you  know, 
we  had  it  all  made  up  to  turn  cows  in  on  Drew's 
garden  when  he  was  away,  an'  let  'em  get  at  his 
spring.  Then  Jay  Muenster  was  goin'  to  slip  in 
sometime  and  put  a  live  rattlesnake  in  Drew's 
bed.  And  if  all  that  didn't  start  'im,  we  was 
gonta  begin  plunkin'  at  him  from  the  chaparral, 
you  know — just  drop  a  few  bullets  at  his  feet 
when  he  was  workin'  in  his  garden.  Wasn't 
that  right?" 

"Sure  was,  Pencie." 

"An'   we   rode   down    there   to   start   things 


CONTENTIONS  219 

goin',"  Pence  continued.  "And  when  Old  Man 
come  outa  the  cabin  he  was  bowin'  and  scrapin', 
and  this  and  that  and  the  other,  like  him  and 
Drew  had  been  pals  all  their  lives.  There's 
somethin'  funny.  Digger  don't  like  it  a-tall!" 

"Does  Ed  know  anything?"  asked  Chuck  after 
a  pause. 

"No,  he  don't,"  answered  Obed  Pence.  "It 
was  Ed  told  Old  Man  'bout  Digger  takin'  a  crack 
at  Drew  when  he  was  monkeyin'  'round  Sulphur 
Spring.  And  Old  Man  told  Ed  to  tell  Digger  to 
cut  it  out,  and  that  he  was  runnin'  the  gang  and 
would  tell  anybody  when  he  wanted  'em  to  throw 
down  on  Drew." 

"I  know." 

"And  Digger  asks  'im  when  he  sees  'im  did  he 
want  Drew  monkeyin'  about  the  spring  and  get- 
tin'  onto  the  pipe  that  took  water  to  the  still. 
And  Old  Man  says  to  hell  with  the  still;  he  was 
gonta  cut  out  makin'  booze,  anyway." 

"Cut  it  out?" 

"That's  what  he  told  Digger  Foss." 

"Hell,  he  makes  more  money  sellin'  monkey 
rum  to  Standard  than  outa  anything  else !  And 
it's  always  been  safe.  Pro'bition  didn't  cut  no 
ice  with  us — just  give  us  ten  times  the  profit!" 

Pence  shrugged  his  ridgy  shoulders.  "I'm 
just  tellin'  you  how  things  are  goin'.  Drew 
made  us  loose  the  Sulphur  Spring  water  to  run 


220       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

the  still  with,  and  Old  Man  didn't  seem  to  give  a 
whoop  about  it.  Drew  finds  the  pipe,  like  as 
not,  and  that  don't  seem  like  it  worried  the  boss. 
Just  says  he'll  cut  out  distillin'.  Why,  he's 
layin'  right  down  to  this  fella  Drew.  Drew's 
got  Old  Man  buffaloed!" 

"Not  a- tall,"  disagreed  Chuck  Allegan.  "You 
know  better'n  that,  Pencie.  Man  don't  live  that 
c'n  buffalo  Old  Man  Selden.  He's  double- 
crossin'  us — that's  what!  There's  somethin'  be- 
hind all  this.  What's  Digger  watchin'  Drew 
for?  Is  that  any  way  to  run  a  man  outa  the 
country?  I'm  askin'  you!" 

"That  runnin'-out-o'-the-country  business  has 
got  to  be  an  old  gag.  Le'me  tell  you  somethin' : 
I  wasn't  goin'  to,  but  I  will.  Digger  said  not 
to  mention  it.  But  listen!  You  know  Old 
Man  took  Drew  home  with  'im  after  the  fiesta." 

Chuck  nodded  his  boyish  head. 

"Well,  Digger  wasn't  asleep  at  the  switch. 
When  it  got  dark  he  rides  across  the  river  and 
into  the  ranch  to  see  if  he  c'n  find  out  what's 
stirrin'.  He  ain't  liked  the  way  things  'a' 
been  goin'  since  he  got  outa  jail.  Course  it's 
Jess'my  that's  got  his  goat.  Drew's  cuttin'  'im 
out;  and  since  the  day  we  rode  into  Drew's 
Digger  thinks  Old  Man's  ag'in  'im,  an's  helpin' 
Drew  get  Jess'my. 

"Anyway,    whatever's     the    reason,    Digger 


CONTENTIONS  221 

leaves  his  horse  in  the  chaparral  and  sneaks  in 
and  sees  'em  at  supper.  And  he  sticks  'round 
till  supper's  over  and  Old  Man  steers  Drew  out 
to  the  corrals  for  a  talk.  They  set  down  on  that 
old  felled  pine  in  the  ferns  below  the  spring,  and 
Digger  snakes  up  through  the  ferns  and  hears 
'em  talkin." 

"What'd  he  say  they  said?''  Chuck  asked 
eagerly. 

"Didn't  have  any  too  much  to  say  about  it," 
Pence  replied.  "Just  said  Old  Man  and  Drew 
was  nice  as  pie  to  each  other;  and  Old  Man  told 
Drew  there  wasn't  any  use  him  bein'  scared  o' 
the  Poison  Oakers,  'cause  there  wasn't  no  such 
outfit." 

"Said  there  wasn't  no  such  outfit?" 

"That's  what  I  said!" 

"And  Digger  wouldn't  tell  no  more?" 

"No,  he  wouldn't.  And  I'll  bet  you  there  was 
a  lot  more  to  tell.  I  savvied  Digger  wasn't 
springin'  all  he  heard.  But  he  don't  like  it." 

"Maybe  they  was  talkin'  'bout  Jess'my. 
Then  he  wouldn't  have  nothin'  to  say,  you  can 
bet  yer  life !" 

"I  got  my  doubts,"  Pence  ruminated.  "No, 
there  was  somethin'  else.  I  know  that  shifty 
little  bullet  eye  o'  Digger's.  He  was  keepin' 
somethin'  back  that  he  ought  to  told  the  rest  of 
us.  I  don't  like  the  way  things  are  goin'.  Since 


this  Drew  showed  up,  seems  like  we  all  got 
somethin'  to  keep  from  one  another.  Old  Man's 
tryin'  to  double-cross  the  gang  someway.  Foss 
is  tryin'  to  get  in  on  it,  or  else  he's  aimin'  to 
double-cross  us  an'  Old  Man,  too,  all  on  his  lone- 
some. An'  we  can't  make  any  more  booze 
'cause  o'  Drew.;  an'  Old  Man  says,  We  sh'd! 
worry !  A  hell  of  a  mess !  We're  due  for  a  big 
bust-up,  I'm  thinkin'.  What's  Foss  sneakin' 
about  watchin'  Drew  for?  Huh!  Answer  me 
that?  An'  why'd  he  tell  me  to  watch  up  here 
an'  trail  'im  if  I  saw  'im,  without  tellin'  me  why? 
I'm  gettin'  about  sick  o'  the  whole  dam'  deal! 
I  ain't  takin'  orders  from  Digger  Foss!" 

"Me,  too,"  agreed  Allegan.  "And  that  fire 
dance — that's  'at  gets  me!  Funny  about  this 
guy  Drew,  comin'  here  a  stranger,  an'  dancin' 
the  fire  dance  right  away.  Somethin'  funny,  all 
right!  Most  folks  thought  maybe  he'd  hooked 
up  with  a  squaw,  but  it  ain't  that.  Gets  my 
goat!  But  how  'bout  the  Selden  boys?" 

"They  ain't  said  a  word.  I  reckon  they're  in 
with  Old  Man,  whatever  he's  got  on  his  chest. 
If  we  come  to  a  split-up,  that'll  make  Old  Man 
and  the  four  boys  on  one  side,  and  me  an'  you 
an'  Ed  Buchanan  and  Jay  Muenster  on  the 
other  side.  Five  to  four." 

"But  how  'bout  Digger?    He's  always  been 


CONTENTIONS  223 

strong  with  Old  Man  Selden.  He'll  stick  with 
him." 

"Maybe — maybe.  He  won't  be  with  us, 
though.  An'  I'm  doubtin'  if  he'll  be  with  Seldeu, 
either.  He's  out  fer  Foss !" 

"Fer  Jess'my,  ye  mean !" 

"  'Sail  the  same,"  shrugged  Obed  Pence.  "Le's 
ride  down  an'  get  a  couple  o'  drinks,  an'  then  I'll 
fog  it  down  to  Lime  Rock  with  ye.  T'hell  with 
Digger  Foss  an'  his  orderin'  me  'round!" 

They  rode  away  in  silence,  winding  their  way 
down  into  Clinker  Creek  Canon  when  a  mile  or 
more  below  the  forty  acres  of  Oliver  Drew.  They 
dismounted  at  Sulphur  Spring  and  pushed 
through  the  growth  surrounding  it. 

Only  a  little  water  now  remained  in  the  clay- 
lined  reservoir.  The  protruding  end  of  the 
three-quarter-inch  pipe  was  now  plainly  visible, 
eight  inches  above  the  surface  of  the  tiny  pool. 

"Just  think,"  Obed  Pence  observed:  "That 
pipe's  took  water  down  the  canon  for  us  for 
years ;  and  s'long's  the  pool  was  full  o'  water  no- 
body ever  found  the  end  of  it  here.  At  least  they 
never  let  on  they  did.  An'  now  comes  this  Drew 
an'  puts  the  kibosh  on  everything!  I'll  tell  a 
man  I'm  gettin'  sore  about  it,  Chuck.  I  want 
my  booze,  and  I  want  my  share  o'  what  we  could 
get  out  of  it.  I'm  bettin'  Standard'll  be  wild 


224       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

when  he  learns  Old  Man  won't  distil  any  more." 

"Can't,"  corrected  Chuck. 

"Can't,  eh?  Who's  stoppin'  1m?  Drew, 
that's  who,  and  nobody  else !  And  he  won't  send 
Drew  over  the  hills  talkin'  to  'imself,  like  he's 
done  to  many  a  better  man  before  'im.  I'm  sore, 
I  tell  you.  And  I'm  gonta  find  out  what's  doin', 
or  know  the  reason  why." 

"Le's  get  clay  an'  cover  the  end  o'  the  pipe," 
suggested  Chuck.  "Some  deer  hunter's  likely 
to  see  it  if  we  don't,  now  that  the  water's  pretty 
near  gone." 

They  solemnly  administered  this  rite  in  re- 
membrance of  dead  days,  and  rode  on  down  the 
canon  single-file. 

Over  three-quarters  of  a  mile  from  the  spring 
they  left  their  horses  in  the  creek  bottom  and 
clambered  up  a  steep  slope,  slipping  on  the  pol- 
ished pine  needles  underfoot.  Near  the  summit 
the  trees  thinned,  and  heavy  chaparral  usurped 
the  land.  On  hands  and  knees  they  plunged  in- 
to it,  and  presently  were  crawling  on  their 
stomachs  over  an  unmarked  route. 

In  the  heart  of  the  chaparral  they  came  sud- 
denly upon  a  circular  opening  made  by  the  hand 
of  man.  Here  was  a  high  ledge  of  schist,  and  un- 
der it  a  small  cave.  Grass  grew  here,  for  the 
spot  marked  the  other  end  of  the  pipe  line  from 
Sulphur  Spring,  and  the  water  that  had  repre- 


CONTENTIONS  225 

sented  the  spring's  overflow  had  trickled  out  to 
cool  the  copper  coil  of  the  Poison  Oakers'  still, 
incidentally  refreshing  the  barren  land. 

The  pipe  line  represented  a  great  amount  of 
toil  and  patience,  but,  as  the  pipe  had  been  stolen 
from  a  railroad  shipment,  no  great  outlay  of 
funds.  Clinker  Creek  Canon  dipped  so  steadily 
below  Sulphur  Spring  that  it  had  been  possible 
to  lay  the  pipe  to  this  hidden  spot  in  the  heart 
of  the  chaparral,  far  up  on  the  hillside,  and  still 
maintain  a  goodly  fall  for  the  flow  of  water. 

Only  by  crawling  flat  on  his  face  could  one 
reach  this  secluded  rendezvous;  and  in  all  the 
years  that  they  had  made  molasses  rum  here  the 
Poison  Oakers  had  not  been  disturbed.  Not  even 
a  hunter  would  find  it  necessary  to  penetrate  this 
fastness.  Men  would  have  laughed  if  told  that 
water  was  flowing  up  here  on  the  dry,  rocky 
eminence. 

Before  the  cave's  mouth  was  an  adobe  furnace 
for  the  fire,  and  over  it  the  now  dry  end  of  the 
pipe  hung  uselessly.  The  still  was  removable, 
and  was  now  in  the  cave,  together  with  distilled 
stock  on  hand  and  kegs  of  molasses  that  had  been 
packed  into  the  canon  on  burros'  backs,  then 
trundled  laboriously  up  into  the  chaparral. 

Chuck  and  Obed  entered  the  open  cave  and 
sat  themselves  down  beside  a  barrel  with  a 
wooden  spigot.  They  found  glasses  and  wiped 


soil  and  cobwebs  from  them  with  their  thumbs, 
and  soon  the  water-coloured  liquor  flowed  to  the 
temporary  gladdening  of  their  hearts. 

But  as  it  flowed  again  and  again  they  began 
renewing  their  grievances,  and  shook  their  heads 
over  "the  good  old  days,"  and  mouthed  vague 
threats,  and  forgot  all  about  Lime  Kock  and  the 
breachy  cow. 

In  the  midst  of  their  maudlin  conversation 
Obed  Pence  heard  a  sound,  despite  his  rum- 
dulled  sensibilities. 

"Cut  it  out !"  he  husked.  "Somebody's  beatin' 
it  in  here." 

He  lay  flat  in  the  mouth  of  the  cave  and  looked 
down  the  hillside  under  the  chaparral. 

"Old  Man  and  Bolar,"  he  announced. 

"Le's  get  out  an'  beat  it  over  the  hill,  and 
back  down  to  our  caballos — and  they  won't  know 
we  been  here,"  Chuck  suggested. 

"Huh!  Not  me!"  retorted  Pence.  "They  al- 
ready seen  our  horses,  I'll  bet.  Anyway,  I'm 
liquored  up  just  right  to  tell  Old  Man  how  the 
war  broke  out.  I'm  glad  he's  comin'.  I'm  gonta 
know  what's  what  right  pronto!" 


CHAPTER  XX 

"WAIT  !" 

FOR  over  an  hour  Oliver  Drew  was  obliged 
to  lie  flat  at  the  bottom  of  the  shallow 
prospect  hole,  while  Foss  remained  astride 
the  limb  of  the  digger  pine  and  Tommy  My-Ma 
kept  hidden  under  the  pile  of  brush. 

There  was  no  chance  to  steal  out  and  crawl 
away  through  the  chaparral,  for,  while  Digger's 
back  was  always  toward  him,  he  could  not  tell 
which  way  the  brush-screened  Showut  Poche- 
daka  was  looking. 

At  last,  though,  the  man  on  lookout  began  to 
show  signs  of  vast  uneasiness.  His  position  was 
uncomfortable,  and  down  at  the  cabin  there  was, 
of  course,  no  movement  to  arouse  his  interest  and 
relieve  the  tedium  of  his  watch.  He  squirmed 
incessantly  for  a  time;  and  then  apparently  he 
decided  that  the  object  of  his  espionage  had  left 
the  ranch,  for  he  thrust  his  glasses  in  his  shirt 
front  and  began  monkeying  to  the  ground. 

Oliver's  security  now  was  in  the  hands  of 
chance.  If  the  halfbreed  left  his  observation 
post  by  a  route  which  passed  near  the  prospect 

227 


228       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

hole,  Oliver  would  be  discovered.  If  he  decided 
to  leave  the  thicket  by  crawling  downhill,  Oliver 
would  be  safe  from  detection. 

It  was  rather  a  breathless  minute  that  fol- 
lowed, and  then  he  heard  the  gunman  moving 
off  through  the  chaparral  in  the  direction  of  the 
canon — the  least  difficult  route  by  far.  Appar- 
ently he  had  not  come  mounted,  else  he  would 
have  retraced  his  course  back  to  where  he  would 
have  left  his  horse. 

Gradually  the  sounds  of  his  retreat  died  away. 
Still  there  was  no  movement  in  the  pile  of  brush, 
so  far  as  Oliver's  ears  were  able  to  detect.  He 
dared  not  look  up  over  the  edge  of  the  prospect 
hole  that  hid  him. 

Minutes  passed.  Quail  called  coolly  from 
afar.  Still  not  the  slightest  sound  from  the 
brush  pile. 

For  half  an  hour  longer  Oliver  lay  motionless 
and  silent.  Had  Tommy  My-Ma  slipped  out 
noislessly  and  followed  Foss?  Or  was  he  for 
some  obscure  reason  still  hiding  under  the  dry 
manzanita  tops?  At  the  end  of  this  period  Oli- 
ver decided  that  the  Indian  must  have  gone. 
Anyway,  he  did  not  purpose  to  remain  in  that 
hole  till  nightfall. 

So  he  elevated  his  nose  to  the  land  level  and 
peered  about  cautiously. 

Everything  remained  as  he  had  seen  it  last. 


"WAIT !"  229 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  left  the  hole,  and  walked 
boldly  to  the  brush  pile. 

A  swift  examination  of  the  ground  showed 
that  Tommy  My-Ma  had  left  his  place  of  con- 
cealment, perhaps  long  since.  There  was  a 
plainly  marked  trail  through  the  shattered  leaves 
that  led  in  the  same  direction  taken  by  the  de- 
parting halfbreed. 

Oliver  studied  the  brush  pile,  and  found  that 
the  facilities  for  hiding  were  as  he  had  deduced. 
Pine  limbs  had  been  laid  across  the  hole  like 
rafters,  and  the  brush  heaped  on  top  of  them. 
Beneath  was  a  space  deep  enough  for  a  man  to 
sit  erect;  and  he  might  thrust  his  head  up  into 
the  brush  and  peer  out  in  all  directions.  Loose 
brush  concealed  the  entrance,  and  it  had  been 
replaced  when  the  Indian  took  his  leave. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  it  all?  Foss,  of 
course,  had  reason  to  hate  him;  but  what  could 
he  gain  by  secretly  watching  him  from  cover? 
And  why  was  the  Indian  watching  Foss  in  turn? 
All  indications  pointed  to  the  belief  that  Foss 
had  occupied  his  observation  tree  often,  and  that 
his  shadow  had  as  frequently  trailed  him  and 
spied  on  him  from  a  prearranged  hiding  place. 

What  strange,  mysterious  intrigue  had  envel- 
oped his  life  because  of  the  unanswered  question 
with  which  old  Peter  Drew  had  struggled  for 
over  thirty  years?  When  would  he  face  the 


230       THE  HERITAGE  OP  THE  HILLS 

question?  Would  the  answer  be  Yes  or  No? 
Would  his  college  education  prove  a  safeguard 
against  his  reading  the  answer  wrong,  as  his 
poor,  unlettered  old  father  had  hoped?  And 
Jessamy!  Would  she  figure  in  the  answer? 
Somehow  he  felt  that  hope  and  life  and  Jessamy 
hung  on  whether  his  answer  would  be  Yes  or 
No.  His  dead  father's  hand  seemed  to  be  weav- 
ing the  warp  and  woof  of  his  destiny. 

Oliver  gave  up  further  search  for  the  bees  that 
day.  By  a  circuitous  route  he  returned  to  his 
irrigating  of  the  garden. 

June  days  passed  after  this,  and  July  days  be- 
gan. The  poison  oak  had  turned  from  green  to 
brilliant  red,  and  now  was  dark-green  once  more. 
The  air  was  hot ;  the  grass  was  sear  and  yellow ; 
the  creek  was  dry  but  for  a  deep  pool  abreast  the 
cabin.  But  Oliver  did  not  worry  much  now 
about  the  creek,  except  for  the  loss  of  its  low, 
comforting  murmur  and  the  greenness  with 
which  it  had  endowed  its  banks,  because 
the  enlarged  flow  from  his  spring  was  ample  for 
his  needs. 

No  longer  did  linnets  sit  near  his  cabin  win- 
dow and  sing  to  the  accompaniment  of  his  type- 
writer keys.  Their  season  of  love  was  over ;  the 
young  birds  were  feathered  out  and  had  left  their 
nests.  The  wild  canaries  still  were  with  him, 
and  hovered  about  the  rambling  willow  over  the 


"WAIT !"  231 

spring.  Eagles  soared  aloft  in  the  clear,  hot 
skies.  Lizards  basked  lazily  about  the  cabin, 
and  blinked  up  contentedly  when  he  tickled  their 
sides  with  a  broomstraw,  or  dangled  pre-swatted 
flies  before  their  grinning  lips. 

For  a  week  now  he  had  seen  no  member  of  the 
Poison  Oaker  Gang.  The  cows  bearing  their 
brand  were  all  about  him,  but  gave  him  no 
trouble,  and  he  thought  it  strange  that  he 
chanced  to  meet  no  one  riding  to  look  after  them. 
He  had  not  been  bothered.  Whether  Digger 
Foss  spent  his  idle  hours  watching  him  from  the 
branches  of  his  lookout  pine  he  did  not  know  or 
care.  He  had  not  seen  Jessamy  since  the  morn- 
ing he  left  Poison  Oak  Ranch,  and  all  his  wor- 
riment  and  discontent  found  vent  in  this. 

Why  had  she  not  ridden  down  to  him,  as  of 
old?  Had  he  offended  her  in  any  way?  The 
thought  was  unbelievable,  for  he  could  recall  not 
the  slightest  hint  of  any  misunderstanding. 

He  brooded  and  moped  over  it,  and  loved  her 
more  and  more — realized,  because  of  her  absence, 
just  how  deeply  he  desired  her.  He  experienced 
all  the  tortures  of  first  love;  and  then  one  day  he 
found  his  senses. 

Then  he  laughed  loud  and  long,  and  ran  for 
Poche,  and  threw  the  silver-mounted  saddle  on 
his  back.  She  had  come  to  him  when  he  could 
not  go  to  her.  Now  her  step-father  had  invited 


232       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

him  to  her  home,  and  if  he  wished  her  compan- 
ionship he  must  take  the  male's  part  and  seek  it. 
What  an  utter  ass  he  had  been  indeed! 

It  was  one  o'clock  when  Poche  bore  him  into 
the  cup  in  the  mountains  that  cradled  Poison 
Oak  Ranch.  At  once  the  longed-for  sight  of  her 
gladdened  his  heart  once  more,  for  she  apparently 
had  seen  him  coming  and  was  walking  from  the 
house  to  meet  him. 

How  her  sturdy,  womanly  figure  thrilled  his 
soul !  Black  as  night  was  the  hair  that  was  now 
coiled  loosely  on  her  head,  in  which  a  red  rose 
blazed  as  when  he  had  seen  her  last.  The  con- 
fident poise  of  her  head,  the  warm  tints  of  that 
strong  column  that  was  her  neck,  the  brave  car- 
riage of  her  shoulders,  her  swinging  stride,  the 
long  black  lashes  that  seemed  to  be  etched  by  an 
Oriental  artist — they  set  his  heart  to  pounding 
until  he  felt  faint ;  the  yearning,  hopeless  void  of 
love  tormented  him. 

And  then  with  his  senses  awhirl  he  leaned 
from  the  saddle  and  felt  her  warm,  soft  hand  in 
his,  and  gazed  dizzily  into  the  unsounded  depths 
of  the  trout  pools  shaded  by  grapevines,  to  which 
his  fancy  had  likened  her  eyes.  His  hand  shook 
and  his  heart  leaped,  and  his  soul  cried  out  for 
her ;  and  all  that  he  could  say  was : 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Selden !" 


"WAIT !"  233 

He  saddled  White  Ann,  and  over  the  hills  they 
rode  together.  Commonplaces  passed  between 
them  until  the  wilderness  enveloped  them.  Then 
as  they  sat  their  horses  and  gazed  down  a  pre- 
cipitous slope  to  the  river,  she  asked : 

"Just  why  have  you  kept  away  from  us  all 
these  weeks?" 

He  reddened.  "I'll  tell  you  frankly,"  he  said : 
"I  was  a  fool.  I  was  moping  because  you  had 
not  ridden  to  see  me.  You  had  come  so  often  be- 
fore. And  I  woke  up  only  today.  Today  for 
the  first  time  I  realized  that,  since  Old  Man  Sel- 
den  has  opened  his  door  to  me,  it  is  my  place  to 
go  to  you." 

"Of  course,"  she  said  demurely. 

He  cleared  his  throat  uncomfortably. 

"Some  time  ago,"  he  told  her,  "I  realized  that 
you  sought  me  out  in  the  first  place  for  a  pur- 
pose." 

He  paused,  and  the  look  he  cast  at  her  was 
eager,  though  guarded  carefully. 

"Yes?"  she  questioned. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on.  "I  realized  that.  And 
also  that  you  continued  to  come  because  that  pur- 
pose was  not  yet  fulfilled,  and  because  conditions 
made  it  necessary  for  you  to  look  me  up." 

'-'Yes,  I  understand — "  as  he  had  come  to  a 
stop,  rather  helplessly. 


"Well,  just  that,"  he  floundered.  "And  then 
Selden  changed  his  tactics,  and  I  could  go  to  you. 
So  you — you  didn't  come  to  me  any  more." 

"Fairly  well  elucidated,"  she  laughed,  "if  repe- 
tition makes  for  clearness.  Well,  you  under- 
stand now — so  let's  forget  it." 

"I  want  you  to  understand  that  it  wasn't  be- 
cause I  didn't  wish  to  come.  It  was  just  thick- 
headedness." 

"So  you  have  said.     Yes,  I  understand." 

The  gaze  of  her  black  eyes  was  far  away — far 
away  over  the  deep,  rugged  canon,  over  the  hills 
that  climbed  shelf  after  shelf  to  the  mystic  snow- 
topped  mountains,  far  away  into  a  country  that 
is  not  of  the  earth  earthy.  Under  her  drab  flan- 
nel shirt  her  full  bosom  rose  and  fell  with  the 
regularity  of  her  perfect  breathing.  Her  man's 
hat  lay  over  her  saddle  horn.  Like  some  reign- 
ing goddess  of  the  wilderness  she  sat  and  over- 
looked the  domain  that  was  hers  unchallenged; 
and  the  profile  of  her  brow,  and  the  long,  black, 
drooping  lashes,  tore  at  the  heartstrings  of  the 
man  until  he  suffered. 

"I  can't  stand  that!"  he  cried  out  in  his  soul; 
and  a  pressure  of  the  reins  brought  Poche  close 
to  White  Ann's  side.  "  Jessamy !"  said  the  man 
huskily.  "Jessamy !" 

He  could  say  no  more,  for  his  voice  failed  him, 


"WAIT !"  235 

and  a  haze  swam  before  his  eyes  as  when  he  had 
lost  control  of  himself  on  the  hillside. 

"  Jessamy !"  he  managed  to  cry  again ;  and  then, 
for  lack  of  words,  he  spread  his  arms  out  toward 
her. 

The  black  lashes  flicked  downward  once,  but 
she  did  not  turn  her  face  to  him.  The  colour 
deepened  in  her  throat  and  mounted  to  her 
cheeks,  and  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  more  rapidly. 

Then  slowly  she  turned  her  face  to  his,  and  her 
level  gaze  searched  him,  unafraid.  But  not 
for  long  this  time.  Down  drooped  the  black 
lashes  till  they  seemed  to  have  been  drawn  with 
pen  and  India  ink  on  her  smooth  brown  cheeks ; 
and  they  screened  a  light  that  caused  his  heart 
to  bound  with  expectation  that  was  half  of  hope. 

Her  red  lips  moved.     "Wait!"  she  whispered. 

His  arms  fell  to  his  sides.  "You — you  won't 
hear  me !" 

"No — not  now." 

"You  know  what  I'm  trying  so  hard  to  say. 
It  means  so  much  to  me.  It's  hard  for  a  man  to 
say  the  one  word  which  he  knows  will  make  him 
or  break  him  for  all  time  to  come.  He'd  rather 
— he'd  rather  just  hope  on  blindly,  I  guess,  than 
to  speak  when  he  can't  guess  how  the  woman 
feels.  Must — must  I  say  it — right  out,  Jes- 
samy?" 


"No,  my  friend,  don't  say  it." 

"Is  there  anything  that  stands  between  us?" 

"Yes.     But  don't  ask  what." 

"Then  you  don't  love  me!" 

Her  red  lips  quivered.  "I  said  for  you  to 
wait,"  she  told  him  softly. 

"Why  should  I  wait?  For  what?  I  know 
myself.  I'm  grown.  I  know  that  I — " 

"Don't !"  she  interrupted.  "Wait !"  And  she 
leaned  in  the  saddle  and  swung  White  Ann  away 
from  him. 

"Let's  ride  back  home,"  she  said.  "You'll  stay 
to  supper?  The  moon  will  be  bright  for  your 
ride  home  later.  I'll  make  you  a  cherry  pie!" 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"WHEN  WE  MEET  AGAIN!" 

IT  will  be  necessary  to  return  to  the  day  that 
Chuck  Allegan  and  Obed  Pence  met  on  the 
ridge  beyond  the  Old  Ivison  Place,  and  rode 
together  to  the  hiding  place  of  the  Poison  Oakers' 
moonshine  still. 

Obed  Pence  continued  to  lie  prone  in  the  mouth 
of  the  cave,  while  his  close-set  eyes  angrily 
watched  the  progress  of  Old  Man  Selden  and  his 
son  Bolar  through  the  chaparral. 

As  the  continued  crawling  of  the  coming  pair 
brought  them  nearer  to  the  retreat  Obed  Pence 
withdrew  his  lank  figure  into  the  shadowy  cave ; 
and  he  and  his  companion  endeavoured  to  appear 
innocent  and  unconcerned. 

Then  when  Old  Man  Selden  and  the  boy 
reached  the  opening  and  stood  erect,  Obed  ap- 
peared at  the  mouth  again  and  greeted  them  with 
a  matter-of-fact : 

"Hello,  there!" 

"Why,  howdy,  Obed,"  returned  Adam  Selden. 
"Didn't  know  ye  was  here.  Who's  with  ye?" 

"I  reckon  you  see  our  horses  down  in  Clinker 

237 


238       THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

Canon,"  returned  Obed  in  trouble-hunting  tones. 
"And  you  know  every  horse  between  Red  Moun- 
tain an'  the  Gap." 

"Yea,  me  and  Bolar  thought  we  saw  a  couple 
o'  animals  through  the  trees.  But  we  hit  the 
ground  farther  up  the  creekbed,  and  come  in 
slonchways.  Thought  maybe  one  o'  the  brutes 
was  Chuck's." 

Obed  Pence  snorted  softly,  but  did  not  add 
more  fuel  to  an  argument  along  this  line. 

"Me  an'  the  kid  was  packin'  a  sack  o'  salt  on 
a  burro  down  toward  the  river,"  Adam  observed, 
approaching  the  cave,  "an'  thought  we'd  belly 
up  an'  have  a  little  smile.  Cows  need  salt.  Hel- 
lo there,  Chuck!" — as  the  round,  boyish  face  of 
Allegan  shone  like  a  small  moon  from  the  dark 
interior. 

"Hello,  Old  Man !"  replied  the  youth.  He  was 
apprehensive  over  Pence's  glowering  silence,  and, 
to  hide  his  feelings,  quickly  opened  the  spigot 
over  a  glass  and  passed  the  water-white  drink  to 
his  chief. 

Adam  Selden  sat  down  with  it,  and  Bolar 
came  into  the  cave  and  was  also  given  a  drink 
by  Chuck. 

"How  early  you  gonta  start  the  drive  for  the 
mountains  this  year,  Old  Man?"  asked  the  self- 
appointed  host,  nervously  filling  glasses  for  him- 
self and  the  glowering  Pence,  who  stood  with 


"WHEN  WE  MEET  AGAIN!"        239 

arms  folded  Napoleonlike  across  his  breast, 
scowlingly  regarding  the  newcomers. 

"Well,  grass's  holdin'  out  muy  'bueno"  said 
Selden  thoughtfully.  "Late  rains  done  it.  I 
don't  think  we'll  have  cause  to  move  'em  any 
earlier  than  common.  The  filaree  down  in  the 
river  bottom  is — " 

But  here  Napoleon  broke  his  moody  silence. 
"I  got  somethin'  to  talk  about  outside  o'  grass," 
snapped  Obed  Pence. 

A  tense  stillness  ensued,  during  which  Old 
"Men  Selden  deliberately  drained  his  glass  and 
passed  it  back  to  Chuck  to  be  refilled. 

"Well,  Obed,"  he  drawled  lazily,  "got  any- 
thing important  to  say,  just  say  her." 

"Oh,  I'll  say  her !"  cried  Pence,  and  tossed  off 
his  drink  of  burning  liquor  by  way  of  fortifica- 
tion. 

"Ain't  been  settin'  here  by  that  bar'l  a  mite 
too  long,  have  ye,  Obed? — if  I  ain't  too  bold  in 
askin',"  was  Selden's  remark,  spoken  in  the  tone 
which  turneth  away  wrath. 

"No,  I  ain't  been  here  too  long,"  Pence  told 
his  captain.  "And  I'm  glad  you've  come,  Old 
Man.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  this  fella 
Drew,  and  the  way  things  'a'  been  a-goin'." 

"Shoot!"  invited  the  old  man's  booming  voice. 

Obed  came  directly  to  the  point.  "Well,  why 
ain't  we  runnin'  Drew  out?" 


Old  Man  Selden  balanced  his  glass  on  one 
peaked  knee  while  he  reached  into  a  pocket  of 
his  chaparejos  for  a  plug  of  tobacco.  He  was 
deliberate  as  he  replied: 

"Well,  Obed,  I  was  waitin'  a  spell  'count  of  a 
little  matter  that's  on  my  mind  just  at  present. 
I'd  advise  ye  not  to  be  worryin'  about  Drew. 
I'll  tend  to  him  when  it's  the  proper  time." 

"Yes,  you  will!"  sniffed  Pence  sarcastically. 
"But,  allowin'  that  you  will,  I  want  my  booze  in 
the  meantime." 

"There's  the  bar'l,"  said  Old  Man  Selden. 

"That  ain't  gonta  last  forever !" 

"Just  so!  But  time  she  gets  low,  we'll  be 
makin'  more  ag'in.  Time  Drew's  gone  and  we 
get  water  runnin'  from  Sulphur  Spring  ag'in." 

"And  I'm  wantin'  my  profit  from  what  we 
could  sell,"  Pence  added,  unmollified.  "I  got  no 
money,  and  won't  have  none  till  killin'  time,  'less 
the  still's  runnin'.  'Tain't  worryin'  you  none. 
You  got  all  you  want  without  makin'  monkey 
rum.  But  it  ain't  like  that  with  me.  Why,  we 
was  makin'  five  gallon  a  day — at  twenty-five 
bucks  a  gallon !  And  now  nary  a  drop.  I  need 
the  money." 

"Well,  Obed,  they's  money  all  about  ye,"  the 
old  man  boomed.  "And  they's  things  that  can 
be  turned  into  money  layin'  'round  loose  every- 
where." 


"WHEN  WE  MEET  AGAIN!"        241 

"And  there's  a  county  jail,  too!"  snapped 
Pence. 

"And  also  federal  prisons,"  Adam  added,  nod- 
ding toward  the  still  and  the  crude  fermentation 
vats. 

"Kats!  Pro'bition  sneaks  ain't  got  me 
scared!  But  bustin'  into  somebody's  store's  a 
different  matter.  And  while  we're  talkin'  about 
it,  Old  Man,  I  don't  see  as  you're  so  keen  for  a 
little  job  like  that  as  you  was  some  months  ago." 

"Gettin'  old,  Obed— gettin'  old,  as  the  fella 
says.  Squirt  another  shot  into  her,  Chuck." 
He  passed  his  glass  again.  "I'll  leave  all  that 
to  you  kids  in  future,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"But  take  your  share,  o'  course,"  sneered 
Pence. 

"Oh,  I  reckon  not,  Obed — I  reckon  not,  I  got 
enough  to  die  on — that's  all  I  need.  Just  putter 
'round  with  a  few  critters  for  my  remainin' 
years,  then  turn  up  my  toes  peaceful-like.  I'm 
gettin'  old,  Obed — just  so!" 

There  was  another  prolonged,  strained  silence. 
Pence  emptied  his  glass  twice  while  it  lasted, 
and  his  Dutch  courage  grew  apace. 

"Looky-here,  Old  Man,"  he  said  at  last,  "Le's 
get  down  to  tacks :  You're  double-crossin'  us,  an' 
we're  dead  onto  it.  For  some  reason  you  don't 
wanta  drive  Drew  outa  Clinker  Creek  Canon. 
It's  got  somethin'  to  do  with  that  fire  dance. 


242      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

There's  more  in  it  for  you  if  you  leave  Drew  alone 
than  if  you  put  a  burr  under  his  tail.  That's  all 
right  so  far's  it  goes.  But  you're  tryin'  to  hog 
it.  You're  squeezin'  the  rest  o'  the  Poison 
Oakers  out — all  but  your  four  kids.  Ed  and 
Digger  and  Chuck  here  and  Jey  and  me's  left  out 
in  the  cold.  That's  what !  And  we  don't  like  it, 
and  ain't  gonta  stand  for  it.  If  there's  more 
profit  in  it  to  leave  Drew  alone,  leave  'im  alone. 
But  le's  all  get  our  share  o'  this  big  profit,  like 
we  always  did." 

"Couple  o'  more  shots  and  ye'll  be  weepin' 
about  her,  Pencie,"  dryly  observed  old  Adam. 

"Never  mind  that!  I  c'n  handle  my  booze. 
You  come  across." 

"I've  known  ye  about  thirteen  year,  Obed," 
said  Adam  in  tones  dangerously  purring,  "and 
I've  never  heard  ye  talk  to  me  thataway  bnfore. 
I  wouldn't  now,  if  I  was  you." 

"And  I've  never  seen  you  act  like  you're  doin' 
in  those  thirteen  years!"  cried  Pence.  "Before 
now  there  wasn't  no  need  to  bawl  you  out.  But 
you're  turnin'  crooked." 

Adam  rose  and  placed  an  enormous  hand  on 
Obed's  shoulder. 

"Just  so!  Just  so!"  he  purred.  "Now,  you 
ramble  down  an'  get  in  yer  saddle  an'  ride  on 
home,  Pencie.  Ye've  had  enough  liquor  for  to» 
day.  An'  when  ye're  sober  we'll  all  talk  about 


"WHEN  WE  MEET  AGAIN!"       243 

her.     Just  so!     That's  best.     Go  on  now — yer 
blood's  hot!" 

Pence  jerked  his  shoulder  away  and  backed 
farther  into  the  gloom  of  the  cave.  Old  Man 
Selden  quickly  moved  so  that  his  body  was  not 
silhouetted  against  the  light  streaming  in  at  the 
mouth. 

"I  don't  want  none  o'  yer  dam'  fatherly  ad- 
vice," growled  Pence.  "I  just  want  a  square 
deal.  If  there's  a  reason  why  Drew  oughta  be 
left  alone  I  want  to  know  it.  And  I  want  to 
know  it  now !" 

"Just  so!    Are  ye  really  mad,  now,  Pencie?" 

"I  am  mad!" 

"And  sober?" 

"Yes,  sober.     Shoot  her  out!" 

The  eagle  eyes  of  Old  Man  Selden  were  fixed 
intently  on  the  face  showing  from  the  gloom 
Every  muscle  was  tense,  every  faculty  alert 
His  beetling  grey  brows  came  down  and  hid  his 
eyes  from  the  younger  man,  but  those  cold  blue 
eyes  saw  everything. 

"Bein's  ye're  sober,  Obed,"  the  old  man 
drawled,  "I'll  be  obliged  to  tell  ye  that  no  Poi- 
son Oaker  ner  any  other  man  ever  talked  to  me 
like  you  been  doin'  and  got  away  with  it.  Just 
so!  And,  bein's  ye're  sober,  I'll  say  that  my 
business  is  my  own,  an'  I'll  keep  her  to  myself 
till  I  get  ready  to  tell  her.  Furthermore,  I'm 


244     THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

still  runnin'  the  Poison  Oakers,  and  what  I  say 
goes  now  same  as  a  couple  months  ago.  I  know 
what's  good  for  us  boys  better'n  any  o'  the  rest 
o'  ye,  and  I'm  doin'  it." 

"You're  a  dam'  liar!"  shouted  Pence. 

Old  Man  Selden's  gun  hand  leaped  to  his  hip. 
"Come  a-shootin',  kid !"  he  bellowed. 

He  whipped  out  his  Colt,  shot  from  the  hip. 
The  roar  of  his  big  gun  filled  the  cave.  Screened 
by  the  smoke  of  it,  Old  Man  Selden  sprang 
nimbly  to  the  deeper  shadows. 

There  he  crouched,  his  cavernous  eyes  peering 
out  through  the  dense,  confined  smoke  like  a 
lynx  posing  to  spring  upon  a  burrowing 
gopher. 

Obed  Pence  had  not  been  slow.  He  too  had 
leaped  the  instant  the  old  man's  hand  dropped 
to  his  holster.  He  had  ducked  into  deeper  shad- 
ows still,  and  had  not  been  hit.  Now  he  fired 
through  the  smoke  wreaths  in  the  direction  he 
supposed  the  old  man  had  darted.  A  report 
from  Adam's  gun  roared  on  the  heels  of  his  own, 
and  rocks  and  earth  rattled  down  a  foot  from 
his  shoulder. 

The  cave  extended  to  right  and  to  left  of  the 
opening.  Each  of  the  fighters  was  hidden  by 
the  darkness  of  his  particular  end,  and  now  the 
smoke  of  the  three  shots  hung  in  a  heavy  blanket 
between  them  directly  opposite  the  door.  Under 


"WHEN  WE  MEET  AGAIN!"       245 

cover  of  this  Chuck  and  Bolar,  sprawling  flat, 
had  wriggled  frantically  out  of  the  cave.  Each 
from  his  own  nook,  the  belligerents  leaned 
cautiously  forward,  guns  ready,  breath  held  in, 
and  tried  to  pierce  the  rack  of  smoke  and  the 
obscurity  of  the  other's  hiding  place. 

It  seemed  to  the  younger  men,  gazing  in,  that 
the  situation  meant  a  deadlock.  Neither  gun- 
man could  see  the  other,  and,  with  no  breath  of 
air  stirring  in  the  cave,  the  smoke  lay  between 
them  like  a  solid  wall. 

Five  minutes  passed  without  a  sound  inside. 
Then  Bolar  drew  nearer  to  the  cave  and  shouted 
in: 

"What  you  gonta  do?  Neither  o'  you  c'n  see 
the  other.  You  can't  shoot.  What  you  gonta 
do?" 

Complete  silence  answered  him.  Then  he 
realized  that  neither  his  father  nor  Obed  Pence 
would  dare  to  speak  lest  the  sound  of  his  voice 
reveal  his  whereabouts  and  call  forth  a  shot 
from  the  other  end  of  the  cave. 

"You  got  to  give  it  up  for  now!"  he  shouted 
in  again.  "I'll  count  one-two-three;  and  when 
I  say  three,  both  o'  ye  throw  yer  guns  in  front 
o'  the  mouth.  I'll  ask  if  ye'll  do  this.  Both  o' 
you  answer  at  once.  Ready!  .  .  .  Will  you?" 

"Yes,"  came  the  smothered  replies  of  both  men 
in  the  cave. 


246     THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"All  right  now.  Get  ready!  One  .  .  .  two 
.  .  .  three!" 

At  the  word  "three"  two  heavy-calibre  Colts 
clattered  on  the  dirt  floor  before  the  entrance 
and  lay  not  a  foot  apart,  proving  that  there  was 
a  recognized  code  of  honour  among  the  Poison 
Oakers.  Bolar  stooped  and  entered,  gathering 
them  in  his  hands. 

"All  set,"  he  announced.  "Come  out  an'  be- 
gin all  over  ag'in." 

Old  Man  Selden  was  the  first  to  come  out. 
Pence  quickly  followed  him.  Bolar  had  emp- 
tied both  weapons  of  cartridges,  and  now  he  sil- 
ently passed  each  his  gun. 

"What'll  it  be,  Pencie?"  asked  Old  Man  Sel- 
den, bending  his  fiery  glance  on  his  dark,  slim 
enemy.  "Shall  we  draw  when  we  meet  ag'in,  er 
forget  it  entirely — or  see  who  c'n  load  an'  shoot 
quickest  right  here  an'  now?" 

"It's  up  to  you,  Old  Man." 

"Forget  it,"  advised  Bolar.  "For  now,  any- 
way." 

"Shall  we  go  our  ways  now,  an'  draw  when  we 
come  together  ag'in?"  It  was  Old  Adam's  ques- 
tion. 

"Why  can't  you  come  across  an'  do  the  square 
thing  now?"  Pence  growled.  "Then  ever'- 
thing's  settled." 

"Just  so!    But  y're  answerin'  my  question 


"WHEN  WE  MEET  AGAIN!"       247 

with  another'n.  Do  we  draw  when  we  meet 
ag'in?" 

"You  won't  be  square?" 

"I'll  tell  ye  nothin'.  Ye  called  me  a  dam* 
liar,  so  you  couldn't  believe  it  if  I  had  anything 
to  say  to  ye." 

Pence  shrugged  indifferently  and  turned 
away.  "When  we  meet  ag'in,"  he  said  lightly. 

"Just  so!"  drawled  Old  Man  Selden.  "Just 
so!" 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  WATCHMAN  OF  THE  DEAD 

OLIVER  DREW  knew  that  the  Mona  Fi- 
esta would  be  held  by  the  Showut  Poche- 
dakas  when  the  July  moon  was  full. 
The  Mona  Fiesta  was  the  tribal  "Feast  of  the 
Dead."  It  was  purely  an  Indian  rite,  unmixed 
with  any  ceremonies  incident  to  the  feast  days 
of  the  Catholic  saints,  as  were  most  other  cele- 
brations. Consequently,  while  the  whites  were 
not  definitely  prohibited  from  being  spectators, 
they  were  not  invited  to  attend.  They  often 
went  out  of  curiosity,  Oliver  had  been  told  by 
Jessamy,  but  always  they  observed  from  a  re- 
spectful distance  and  went  unnoticed  by  the 
worshippers. 

Th  underlying  principle  of  the  Feast  of  the 
Dead  was  ancestor  worship,  in  which  all  of 
the  Pauba  Tribes  were  particularly  devout. 
Jessamy  told  Oliver  that  she  had  witnessed  the 
ceremony  once  from  a  distance,  but  that, 
as  it  occurred  at  night,  she  had  seen  little  of 
what  was  taking  place. 

Oliver  had  wondered  that  he  had  received  no 

248 


THE  WATCHMAN  OF  THE  DEAD     249 

message  from  old  Chupurosa  Hatchinguish  after 
the  night  of  the  fire  dance.  He  was  now  a  mem- 
ber of  the  tribe,  he  supposed,  but  all  actual  con- 
tact with  his  new-found  brethren  seemed  to  have 
ceased  when  he  rode  away  from  the  fiesta.  The 
mystery  of  why  he  was  in  this  country  hung  on 
his  connection  with  the  Showut  Poche-dakas. 
He  was  impatient  to  get  in  closer  touch  with  the 
wrinkled  old  chief  and  bring  matters  to  a  head. 

And  now  another  feast  day  was  close  at  hand. 
In  two  more  nights  a  full  moon  would  shower 
its  radiance  over  the  land  of  the  Poison  Oakers. 
He  had  received  no  word,  no  intimation  that 
he  would  be  wanted  at  the  reservation  for  the 
Mona  Fiesta.  Whites  were  excluded,  he  knew; 
but,  then,  he  was  now  a  brother  of  the  Showut 
Poche-dakas,  and  he  hoped  against  hope  that 
he  would  be  commanded  to  appear. 

But  the  two  intervening  days  went  by,  and 
the  evening  of  the  celebration  was  at  hand,  with 
no  one  having  arrived  to  bid  him  come. 

He  was  seated  on  his  little  porch  that  evening, 
listening  to  the  night  sounds  of  chaparral  and 
forest,  as  the  moon  edged  its  big  round  face  over 
the  hill  and  smiled  at  him.  He  was  thinking 
half  of  Jessamy,  half  of  an  article  that  he  had 
planned  to  write.  Two  fair-sized  checks  for 
previous  work  had  reached  him  that  week,  and 
he  was  beginning  to  have  visions  of  a  future. 


250     THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

In  a  pine  tree  close  at  hand  an  owl  asked: 
"Who?  Who?  Who— o-o-o?"  in  doleful  tones. 
From  a  distant  hilltop  came  the  derisive,  outlaw 
laughter  of  coyotes.  A  big  toad  hopped  on  the 
porch,  blinked  at  the  man  in  the  moonlight,  and 
then  started  ponderously  for  his  door.  Oliver 
rose  and  with  his  foot  turned  him  twice,  but  the 
toad  corrected  his  course  immediately  and 
seemed  determined  to  enter  the  house  willy- 
nilly. 

"But  I  don't  want  you  in  there,"  Oliver  pro- 
tested boyishly.  "I  might  step  on  you  in  the 
dark,  or  accidentally  put  my  hand  on  your  old 
cold  back." 

He  closed  the  door,  and  the  toad  hopped  on 
the  threshold,  as  if  resolved  to  await  his  chance 
for  a  strategic  entrance. 

"All  right,"  said  Oliver.  "Sit  there!  When 
I'm  ready  to  go  in  I'll  climb  through  a  win- 
dow. You  are  not  going  into  that  house !" 

He  laughed  at  himself.  His  was  a  lonesome 
life  when  he  was  not  with  Jessamy ;  and,  always 
a  lover  of  every  living  thing  that  God  has 
created,  he  had  made  friends  with  the  wild  life 
that  moved  about  his  cabin,  so  that  toads  and 
lizards,  birds  and  squirrels  looked  to  him  for 
food  and  had  no  fear  of  him. 

He  sat  puffing  at  his  pipe  and  giving  the  ob- 
stinate toad  blink  for  blink,  when  there  came  to 


his  ears  strange  sounds  from  up  the  lonely 
canon. 

At  first  he  imagined  they  were  made  by  rov- 
ing cattle,  then  he  recognized  the  ring  of  shod 
hoofs  on  the  stones  in  the  trail.  Then  voices. 
And  presently  he  knew  that  many  horsemen 
were  riding  toward  the  cabin — a  veritable  cav- 
alcade. 

He  rose  from  his  chair  and  stood  listening, 
not  without  a  feeling  of  apprehension.  As  the 
concerted  thudding  of  many  hoofs  drew  closer 
and  closer  he  ran  into  the  cabin  and  strapped 
on  his  six-shooter.  He  had  been  at  a  complete 
loss  to  interpret  Old  Man  Selden's  later  attitude 
toward  him,  and  was  wary  of  a  trap.  The 
sounds  he  heard  could  mean  nothing  to  him  ex- 
cept that  the  Poison  Oakers  were  at  last  riding 
upon  him  to  begin  their  raid. 

Suddenly  from  the  other  direction  came  the 
clattering  hoofbeats  of  a  single  galloping  horse. 
Silvery  under  the  magic  light  of  the  moon,  a 
white  horse  burst  into  view,  galloping  over  a 
little  rise  to  the  south.  It  carried  a  rider. 
Now  came  a  familiar  "Who-hoo!"  And  Jessamy 
Selden  soon  was  bending  from  her  saddle  at  the 
cabin  door. 

"Thank  goodness,  I'm  in  time!"  she  said.  "I 
didn't  know  when  they  would  start,  and  I 
waited  too  long." 


252     THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"What  in  the  mischief  are  you  doing  in  the 
saddle  this  time  of  night?"  he  demanded. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing!  I  get  out  of  bed  some- 
times and  saddle  up  for  a  moonlight  ride.  I 
love  it." 

"But—" 

"Here  they  come !  I  wanted  to  get  here  ahead 
of  them  and  warn  you  to  pretend  you  were  ex- 
pecting them.  You're — you're  supposed  to 
know." 

"I'm  supposed  to  know  what?" 

"About  the  Mona  Fiesta.  It's  to  be  observed 
here  on  the  Old  Ivison  Place.  It  always  is. 
And — and  you're  supposed  to  know  it." 

"How  explicit  you  aren't !     Well,  what — " 

"Sh !     There  they  are !     I  can't  explain  now." 

Oliver's  thoughts  were  moving  swiftly,  and  he 
did  not  put  them  aside  even  when  he  saw  his  gate 
being  opened  to  a  large  company  of  horsemen. 

"I've  got  you,"  he  said.  "Your  little  attempt 
at  subterfuge  has  failed  again.  Those  are  the 
Showut  Poche-dakas  coming?" 

She  nodded  in  her  slow,  emphatic  manner. 

"Uh-huh!  I  see.  And  you  might  have  told 
me  many  days  ago  that  they  would  come.  And 
if  that  isn't  so,  you  could  have  got  here  much 
earlier  tonight  to  warn  me  in  time.  But  that 
would  have  given  me  an  opportunity  to  question 
you,  and  this  you  didn't  want.  So  you  waited 


THE  WATCHMAN  OF  THE  DEAD     253 

till  they  were  almost  upon  me,  then  made  a  Sher- 
idan dash  to  warn  me,  when  there  would  be  no 
time  to  answer  embarrassing  questions.  Pretty 
clever,  sister !  But  you  see  I'm  dead  on  to  your 
little  game." 

Her  laugh  was  as  near  to  a  giggle  as  he  had 
ever  heard  from  her. 

"You're  a  master  analyst,"  she  praised.  "I'll 
'fess  up.  It's  just  as  you  say.  You  know  my 
nature  makes  it  necessary  for  me  to  dodge  direct 
issues,  where  your  mystery  is  concerned.  But 
they're  right  on  us — go  out  and  meet  'em.'' 

"You'll  wait?" 

"Sure." 

The  foremost  riders  of  the  long  cavalcade 
were  now  abreast  the  cabin,  and  Oliver  Drew 
stepped  toward  them  as  they  halted  their  ponies. 

The  strong  light  of  the  full  moon  was  suffi- 
cient to  reveal  the  wrinkled-leather  skin  of  old 
Chupurosa  Hatchinguish,  who  rode  in  the  lead, 
sitting  his  blanketed  horse  as  straight  as  a  buck 
of  twenty  years.  Oliver  reached  him  and  held 
out  a  hand. 

"Welcome  to  the  Hummingbird,"  he  said  in 
Spanish. 

"Greetings,"  returned  the  old  man,  solemnly 
taking  the  offered  hand.  "The  July  moon  is 
in  the  full,  brother,  and  I  have  brought  the 
Showut  Poche-dakas  for  the  yearly  Mona  Fiesta 


254     THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

to  the  spot  where  our  fathers  worshipped  since 
a  time  when  no  man  can  remember." 

"Thou  art  welcome,"  said  Oliver  again,  en- 
tirely lost  as  to  just  what  was  expected  of  him. 

Chupurosa  left  the  blanket  which  he  used  as 
a  saddle.  It  was  the  signal  for  all  to  dismount, 
and  like  a  troop  of  cavalry  the  Showut  Poche- 
dakas  left  their  horses.  They  tied  them  to 
fenceposts  and  trees  out  of  respect  for  the  land- 
owner's rights  in  the  matter  of  grass. 

"Is  all  in  readiness?"  asked  the  ancient  chief. 

"Er — "  Oliver  paused. 

A  hand  gripped  his  arm.  "Yes,"  Jessamy's 
voice  breathed  in  his  ear. 

"All  is  in  readiness,"  said  Oliver  promptly. 

Jessamy  then  stepped  forward  and  offered  her 
hand  to  Chupurosa. 

"Hello,  my  Hummingbird!"  she  caroled  mis 
chievously  in  English. 

"The  light  of  the  moon  takes  nothing  from  the 
Senorita's  loveliness,"  said  the  old  man  gal- 
lantly. 

By  this  time  the  Showut  Poche-dakas  had 
formed  a  semicircle  before  the  cabin. 

"Let  us  proceed  to  the  Mona  Fiesta,"  said 
Chupurosa.  "Let  the  son  of  Dan  Smeed  lead 
the  way." 

Over  this  strange  new  designation  Oliver  was 
given  no  time  for  thought;  for  instantly  Jes- 


THE  WATCHMAN  OF  THE  DEAD     255 

samy  laid  a  firm  grip  above  his  elbow  and  led 
him  to  the  pasture  gate.  The  Showut  Poche- 
dakas  followed  at  the  heels  of  Jessamy's  mare. 

"Don't  worry,"  the  girl  whispered  into  Oli- 
ver's ear.  "Nothing  much  will  be  required  of 
you.  Just  try  to  appear  as  if  you  know  all 
about  it,  and  had  attended  to  the  preliminaries 
yourself." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Oliver  dazedly,  his  mind  now 
in  a  whirl. 

She  led  him  across  the  pasture  in  the  direc- 
tion from  which  she  had  ridden  so  unexpectedly 
to  the  cabin.  They  reached  a  little  arroyo,  and 
down  it  they  turned  to  the  creekbed.  They 
crossed  the  watercourse  and  turned  down  it. 
Presently  they  entered  a  cluster  of  pines  and 
spruce  trees,  which  was  close  to  what  Oliver 
called  The  Four  Pools. 

In  succession,  four  deep  depressions  in  the 
bedrock  of  the  creekbed  were  ranged,  and  each 
held  clear,  cool  water,  fed  by  an  undiscovered 
spring,  though  the  creek  proper  was  now  en- 
tirely dry.  In  the  bedrock  about  these  pools 
Oliver  had  previously  noted  several  round  holes 
the  size  of  a  half-bushel  measure.  These  were 
morteros,  he  knew — the  mortars  in  which  the 
California  Indians  pound  acorns  in  the  making 
of  the  dish  bellota.  He  had  often  speculated  on 
the  probable  antiquity  of  these  morteros,  and 


256     THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

had  dreamed  of  early-day  scenes  enacted  there 
and  about  them. 

There  was  a  circular  open  space  in  the  midst 
of  the  tall,  whispering  trees.  Just  above  this 
spot,  up  the  steep  hillside,  he  had  lain  in  the 
prospect  hole  and  watched  Digger  Foss  spying 
on  the  cabin  down  below,  while  Tommy  My-Ma 
hid  under  the  brush  and  spied  on  him.  Into 
the  open  space  in  the  trees  the  fearless  girl  led 
the  way,  and  there  in  the  centre  of  it  the  moon- 
light streaming  through  the  branches  revealed 
a  nuge  pile  of  brush  and  wood,  arranged  as  if 
for  a  great  fire. 

She  pressed  his  arm,  and  they  came  to  a  halt. 
Behind  them  the   Showut  Poche-dakas  halted 
To  Oliver's  side  stepped  Chupurosa,  and  spoke 
in  the  tongue  of  the  Paubas  to  a  man  at  his 
right  hand. 

This  man  stepped  to  the  pile  of  brush  and 
wood  and  fired  it. 

As  the  flames  leaped  up  and  licked  at  the  sun- 
dried  fuel  the  Indians  closed  in,  and  now  the 
light  of  the  fire  showed  Oliver  that  there  were 
women  among  their  number.  At  the  edge  of 
the  trees  they  formed  a  circle  about  the  fire, 
then  all  of  them  save  Chupurosa  squatted  on  the 
ground. 

And  now  the  firelight  brought  something  else 
to  view.  It  was  nothing  more  mysterious  than  a 


THE  WATCHMAN  OF  THE  DEAD     257 

wooden  drygoods  box  at  the  foot  of  one  of  the 
pines,  and  beside  it  stood  a  large  red  earthen 
olla.  What  these  held  Oliver  could  not  see. 
He  was  puzzling  over  the  fact  that  these  simple 
arrangements  had  been. made  on  his  land  while 
he  sat  on  his  porch  two  hundred  yards  away 
and  smoked,  for  he  had  passed  this  spot  early 
that  evening  and  it  had  been  as  usual  then. 

The  dark-skinned  men  and  women  squatted 
there  silently  about  the  fire,  their  serious  black 
eyes  blinking  into  it.  There  was  something  pa- 
thetic about  it  all.  They  were  always  so  serious, 
so  intent,  so  devout;  and  their  poor,  ragged 
clothes  and  bare  feet  were  so  evident. 

"Join  the  circle,"  whispered  Jessamy. 

Oliver  obeyed. 

Then  Jessamy  stepped  to  Chupurosa,  who  had 
been  gazing  at  her  silently. 

"Good-night,  my  Hummingbird,"  she  said, 
and  smiled  at  him. 

An  answering  smile  lighted  the  withered  fea- 
tures, and  once  more  the  old  man  took  the  girl's 
slim  hand  in  his. 

He  dropped  it.  She  turned  and  vaulted  into 
her  saddle.  The  mare  leaped  away  over  the 
moonlit  pasture.  For  a  time  the  thudety-thud 
of  her  galloping  hoofs  floated  back,  and  then 
came  silence. 

Amid  a  continuation  of  this  stillness  Chupu- 


258     THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

rosa  stepped  close  to  the  fire,  now  leaping  high, 
and  stretched  forth  his  brown,  wrinkled  hands. 
He  threw  back  his  head  and  began  speaking 
softly,  directing  his  voice  aloft.  Not  a  word  of 
what  he  said  was  known  to  Oliver.  Gradually 
his  voice  rose,  and  his  tones  were  guttural, 
growling.  His  body  swayed  from  right  to  left, 
but  he  kept  his  withered  hands  outstretched. 
Presently  tears  began  trickling  down  his  cheeks, 
but  he  continued  his  prayer,  or  address,  or  invo- 
cation, his  tears  unheeded. 

Now  one  by  one  his  silent  listeners  began  to 
weep.  They  wept  silently,  and,  but  for  their 
teai*s,  Oliver  would  not  have  realized  their  deep 
emotion.  Sometimes  they  rocked  from  side  to 
side,  but  always  they  maintained  silence  and 
kept  their  tear-dimmed  eyes  focused  on  the 
speaker. 

Abruptly  Chupurosa  came  to  a  full  stop, 
backed  from  the  fire,  and  squatted  on  the  ground 
inside  the  circle.  No  applause,  not  a  word,  no 
sign  of  any  nature  followed  the  cessation  of  his 
harangue. 

Now  two  young  Indians  led  forth  an  old,  old 
man.  Each  of  them  held  one  of  his  arms.  He 
was  stooped  and  trembly,  and  his  feet  dragged 
pitiably;  and  as  he  neared  the  fire  Oliver  saw 
that  he  was  totally  blind. 


THE  WATCHMAN  OF  THE  DEAD     259 

Never  before  in  his  life  had  the  white  man 
seen  age  so  plainly  stamped  on  human  counte- 
nance. Oliver  had  thought  Chupurosa  old,  but 
he  appeared  as  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life  in 
comparison  with  this  blind  patriarch.  His 
long  hair  was  white  as  snow,  and  this  in  itself 
was  a  mark  of  antiquity  seldom  seen  in  the  race. 
It  was  not  until  long  afterward  that  Oliver 
found  out  that  this  man  was  a  notable  among 
the  Pauba  Tribes,  Maquaquish  by  name — the 
oldest  man  among  them,  a  seer,  counsellor,  and 
medicine  man  whose  prophesies  and  prognosti- 
cations were  forceful  in  the  regulation  of  a 
great  portion  of  the  Paubas'  lives.  He  was 
bareheaded,  barefooted,  and  wore  only  blue  over- 
alls, a  cloth  girdle,  and  a  coarse  yellow  shirt. 

When  at  a  comfortable  distance  from  the  fire 
the  trio  came  to  a  stop.  The  two  conductors  of 
the  pathetic  blind  figure  knelt  promptly  on  one 
knee,  one  on  each  side  of  him.  With  their  bent 
knees  touching  behind  him,  they  gently  lowered 
him  until  he  found  the  seat  which  their  sinewy 
thighs  had  made  for  him.  There  was  a  few  mo- 
ments' silence,  and  then  he  lifted  his  trembling 
hands  and  began  to  speak. 

Oliver  carried  no  watch,  and  would  not  have 
had  the  discourtesy  to  consult  it  if  he  had ;  but  he 
believed  that  Maquaquish  spoke  for  two  solid 


260     THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

hours  without  pause.  And  all  this  time  the  two 
who  upheld  him  on  their  knees  and  steadied  him 
with  their  hands  seemed  not  to  move  a  muscle. 
And  not  a  sound  came  from  the  audience  beyond 
an  occasional  uncontrollable  sob.  Maquaquish 
spoke  in  hushed  tones  that  blended  strangely 
with  the  night  sounds  of  the  forest.  His  phys- 
ical attitude  and  his  delivery  were  those  of  a 
story-teller  rather  than  an  orator  or  preacher; 
and  his  listeners  hung  on  every  word,  their  black 
bead  eyes  fixed  constantly  on  his  face. 

Oliver  Drew  was  dreaming  dreams.  He 
would  have  given  all  that  he  had  to  be  able  to 
interpret  what  Maquaquish  was  saying.  What 
strange  traditions  was  he  recalling  to  their 
minds?  What  hidden  chapters  in  the  bygone 
history  of  this  ancient  race?  Never  was  congre- 
gation more  wrapped  up  in  a  speaker's  words. 
Never  were  religious  zealots  more  devout. 
Strange  thoughts  filled  the  white  man's  mind. 
.  He  was  roused  from  his  dreaming  with  a 
start.  Maquaquish  had  ceased  speaking,  and  a 
low  chanting  sounded  about  the  fire.  It  grew 
in  volume  as  the  blind  man's  escort  led 
him  back  to  his  place  in  the  circle.  It  grew 
louder,  weirder  still,  as  the  two  who  had  aided 
the  seer  stepped  to  the  drygoods  box  and  carried 
it  between  them  past  the  fire.  As  they  walked 


THE  WATCHMAN  OF  THE  DEAD     261 

with  it  beyond  the  circle  every  Indian  rose  to  his 
feet  and  followed  slowly.  Oliver  did  likewise, 
not  knowing  what  else  to  do. 

On  the  brink  of  one  of  the  pools  the  assem- 
blage halted,  the  firelight  playing  over  them. 
From  the  box  its  custodians  removed  bolts  of 
cheap  new  calico  cloth  of  many  colours.  Two 
of  these  they  unwound,  and  laid  along  the 
ground,  leading  away  from  the  edge  of  the 
chosen  pool. 

Then  the  two  slipped  out  of  their  clothes  and 
stepped  naked  into  the  water  to  their  wraists, 
where  each  laid  hold  of  an  end  of  a  strip  of  cal- 
ico and  stood  motionless. 

To  the  edge  of  the  moonlit  pool  stepped  Chup- 
urosa.  He  extended  his  hands  over  the  water 
and  spoke  a  few  sonorous  words.  As  his  hands 
came  down  the  chanting  broke  out  anew,  and 
now  the  men  in  the  water  began  gathering  in  the 
strips  of  calico,  washing  the  cloth  in  the  water 
as  they  reeled  it  to  them. 

At  last  they  finished.  The  chanting  ceased. 
The  two  nude  men  carried  the  dripping  cloth 
from  the  water  in  bundles.  The  assemblage 
filed  back  to  the  dying  fire,  all  but  the  two  who 
had  washed  the  cloth. 

When  the  Showut  Poche-dakas  were  once 
more  squatting  in  a  circle  about  the  blaze,  one 


262      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

of  the  two,  now  dressed,  entered  the  circle  with 
the  red  olio,  filled  with  water  from  the  pool. 
This  was  passed  i'vom  hand  to  hand  around  the 
circle,  and  each  one  drank  from  it.  When  it 
came  to  Oliver  he  solemnly  acted  his  part,  and 
passed  the  oUa  to  his  left-hand  neighbour. 

As  the  olla  finished  its  round,  into  the  circle 
danced  the  two  who  had  washed  the  cloth.  In 
their  arms  they  held  bolts  of  dry  cloth;  and 
amid  shouts  and  laughter  they  threw  them  into 
the  air,  while  the  feminine  element  of  the  tribe 
clutched  up  eagerly  at  them. 

When  the  last  bolt  of  calico  had  been  thrown 
and  had  been  captured  and  claimed  by  some  de- 
lighted squaw,  the  assemblage,  talking  and 
laughing  in  an  everyday  manner,  left  the  Four 
Pools  and  started  back  to  their  horses. 

The  Mona  Fiesta  was  over.  Symbolically  the 
clothes  of  the  dead  had  been  washed.  The 
Showut  Poche-dakas  had  drunk  of  the  water 
that  had  cleansed  them.  And  this  was  about  all 
that  Oliver  Drew  ever  learned  of  the  significance 
of  the  ceremony. 

At  the  cabin  Chupurosa  waited  on  his  horse 
until  his  tribesmen  had  all  ridden  through  the 
gate.  Then  he  leaned  over  and  spoke  to  Oliver. 

"When  a  year  has  passed,"  he  said,  "and  the 
same  moon  which  we  see  tonight  again  looks 
down  upon  us,  the  Showut  Poche-dakas  will 


THE  WATCHMAN  OF  THE  DEAD     263 

once  more  wash  the  clothes  of  the  dead  and 
drink  of  the  water.  I  enjoin  thee,  Watchman  of 
the  Dead,  to  have  all  in  readiness  once  more,  as 
thou  hadst  tonight.  Adios,  Watchman  of  the 
Dead!" 
And  he  rode  off  slowly  through  the  moonlight. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   QUESTION 

THE  morning  following  the  Feast  of  the 
Dead,  Oliver  Drew  rode  Poche  out  of 
Clinker  Creek  Canon,  driving  Smith 
ahead  of  them,  on  the  way  to  Halfmoon  Flat  for 
supplies.  Over  the  hills  above  the  American 
River  he  saw  a  white  horse  galloping  toward 
him. 

This  was  to  be  a  chance  meeting  with  Jessamy. 
He  had  an  idea  she  would  not  be  anxious  to 
face  him,  after  her  attempted  subterfuge  of  the 
night  before ;  so  he  slipped  from  the  saddle,  cap- 
tured Smith,  and  led  the  two  animals  back  into 
the  woods. 

Then  he  hurried  to  a  tree  on  the  outskirts  and 
hid  behind  it. 

On  galloped  White  Ann,  with  the  straight, 
sturdy  figure  in  the  saddle.  As  they  came 
closer  Oliver  knew  by  her  face  that  Jessamy  had 
not  seen  him;  and  as  they  came  abreast  he 
stepped  out  quickly  and  shouted. 

Jessamy  turned  red,  reined  in,  and  faced  him, 
her  lips  twitching. 

264 


THE  WATCHMAN  OP  THE  DEAD     265 

"Good  morning,  my  Star  of  Destiny !"  he  said. 

A  flutter  of  bafflement  showed  in  her  black 
lashes,  but  the  lips  continued  to  twitch  mischie- 
vously. 

"Buenos  dias,  Watchman  of  the  Dead!"  she 
shot  back  at  him. 

Oliver's  eyes  widened. 

"Got  under  your  guard  with  that  one,  eh,  ol'- 
timer?  Just  so ! — if  you'll  permit  a  Seldenisra. 
Tit  for  tat,  as  the  fella  says !  Your  move  again." 

And  then  she  threw  back  her  head  and 
laughed  to  the  skies  above  her. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked. 

"RidinV 

"You  weren't  headed  for  the  Old  Ivison 
Place." 

"No,  not  his  morning.  I  was  not  seeking  you. 
But  since  I've  met  you,  and  the  worst  is  over, 
I'll  not  avoid  you." 

"Help  me  pack  a  load  of  grub  down  the  canon ; 
then  I'll  go  'ridin'  with  you." 

She  nodded  assent. 

"I  thought  so,"  she  observed,  as  he  led  Poche 
and  Smith  from  hiding. 

"I  thought  you'd  turn  back,  or  turn  off,  if  you 
saw  me  here  ahead  of  you,"  he  made  confession. 

"I  might  have  done  that,"  she  told  him  as 
they  herded  Smith  into  the  road  and  followed 
him. 


266      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

They  said  nothing  more  about  what  had  taken 
place  the  night  before  until  the  bags  had  been 
filled  and  diamond-hitched,  and  Smith  was  roll- 
ing his  pack  from  side  to  side  on  the  homeward 
trail.  Then  Oliver  asked  abruptly: 

"Who  laid  that  fire,  and  put  the  box  of  cloth 
and  the  olla  at  The  Four  Pools  yesterday?" 

"Please,  sir,  I  done  it,"  she  replied. 

"When?" 

"Just  before  I  rode  to  your  cabin  last  even- 
ing." 

"TJh-huh !"  he  grunted,  and  fell  silent  again. 

At  the  cabin  she  helped  him  throw  off  the  dia- 
mond-hitch and  unload  the  packbags.  Then  the 
shaggy  Smith  was  left  to  his  own  devices — much 
to  his  loudly  voiced  disapproval — and  Jessamy 
and  Oliver  rode  off  into  the  hills. 

"Which  way?"  he  asked  as  they  topped  the 
ridge. 

"Lime  Rock,"  she  replied. 

Tracing  cow  paths  single-file,  they  wound 
through  and  about  chaparral  patches  and  rocky 
caiions  till  they  reached  the  old  trail  that  led  to 
Lime  Rock. 

Lime  Rock  upreared  itself  on  the  lip  of  a 
thousand-foot  precipice  that  overhung  the  river. 
It  was  three  hundred  feet  in  height,  a  gigantic 
white  pencil  pointing  toward  the  sky.  At  its 
base  was  a  small  level  space,  large  enough  for 


THE  QUESTION  267 

a  wagon  and  team  to  turn,  but  the  remainder  of 
the  land  about  and  above  it  was  hillside,  too 
steep  for  cows  to  climb.  And  from  the  edge  of 
the  level  land  the  canonside  dropped  straight 
downward,  a  mass  of  craggy  rocks  and  ill-nour- 
ished growth.  The  trail  that  led  to  Lime  Rock 
wound  its  way  over  a  shelf  four  feet  in  width, 
hacked  in  the  hillside.  One  false  step  on  this 
trail  and  details  of  what  must  inevitably  ensue 
would  be  hideous. 

Oliver  led  the  way  when  they  reached  the  be- 
ginning of  the  trail.  Both  Poche  and  White 
Ann  were  mountain  bred  animals,  sure-footed 
and  unconcerned  over  Nature's  threatening  ec- 
centricities. For  a  quarter  of  a  mile  the  bay 
and  the  white  threaded  the  narrow  path, 
their  riders  silent.  Then  they  came  to  Lime 
Rock  and  the  security  of  the  level  land  about 
it. 

Here  Oliver  and  Jessamy  sat  their  horses  and 
gazed  down  the  dizzy  precipice  at  the  rushing 
river,  and  up  the  steep,  rocky  wall  on  the  other 
side. 

"Do  you  know  who  owns  the  land  on  which  our 
horses  are  standing?"  Jessamy  finally  asked. 

"I've  never  given  it  a  thought,"  said  Oliver. 

"It  belongs  to  Damon  Tamroy." 

"That  so?  I  didn't  know  he  owned  anything 
over  this  way." 


268      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Yes,  Damon  owns  it.  But  I  have  an  option 
on  it." 

"You!     Have  an  option  on  it!" 

"Yes,  a  year's  option.  It  was  rather  an 
underhanded  trick  that  I  played  on  old  Damon, 
but  he's  not  very  angry  about  it.  It's  my  first 
business  venture. 

"You  see,  I  learned  through  a  letter  from  a 
girl  friend  in  San  Francisco  that  a  big  cement 
company  was  thinking  of  invading  this  country. 
She  wrote  it  merely  as  a  bit  of  entertaining  news, 
but  I  looked  at  it  differently. 

"I  knew  where  they'd  begin  their  invasion. 
Right  here!  That  magnificent  monument  there 
is  solid  limestone,  and  the  hills  back  of  it  are  the 
same,  though  covered  by  a  thin  layer  of  soil. 
So  I  went  to  the  owner  of  the  land,  Damon  Tam- 
roy,  and  got  a  year's  option  on  it  for  twenty- 
five  dollars — a  hundred  and  sixty  acres. 

"How  Damon  laughed  at  me !  I  told  him  out- 
right why  I  wanted  to  buy  the  land,  if  ever  I 
could  scrape  enough  together.  He  didn't  con- 
sider it  very  valuable,  and  it  may  become  mine 
any  day  this  year  that  I  can  pungle  up  four 
hundred  and  seventy-five  bucks  more.  When  he 
quizzed  me,  I  told  him  frankly  that  I  was  doing 
it  in  an  effort  to  preserve  Lime  Rock  for 
posterity,  and  he  laughed  louder  than  ever. 

"But  he  changed  his  tune  when  a  representa- 


THE  QUESTION  269 

live  of  the  cement  company  approached  him 
with  an  offer  of  fifteen  dollars  an  acre.  He  took 
his  loss  goodnaturedly  enough,  but  accused  me 
of  putting  over  a  slick  little  business  deal  on 
him.  I  had  done  so,  in  a  way,  and  admitted  it; 
and  ever  since  I've  been  talking  myself  blue  in 
the  face  when  I  meet  him,  trying  to  convince  him 
that  it's  not  the  money  I'm  after  at  all. 

"Think  of  an  old  hog  of  a  cement  company 
coming  in  here  and  erecting  a  rumbling  old 
plant,  with  the  noon  whistle  deriding  the  rever- 
ential calm  of  this  magnificent  canon,  and  their 
old  drills  and  dynamite  and  things  ripping 
Lime  Rock  from  its  throne!  Bah!  I'm  going 
to  San  Francisco  soon  to  get  a  job.  I  may  de- 
cide to  go  this  week.  It  will  keep  me  hustling 
to  put  away  four  hundred  and  seventy-five  dol- 
lars between  now  and  the  day  my  option  ex- 
pires." 

Oliver  sat  looking  gravely  at  the  young  ideal- 
ist, suppressing  his  disappointment  over  the  pos- 
sibility of  her  early  departure. 

"But  we  have  to  have  cement,"  he  pointed  out. 

"Do  we?  Maybe  so.  But  there's  lots  of 
limestone  in  the  west.  Men  don't  need  to  search 
out  such  spots  as  this  in  which  to  get  it.  There 
are  less  picturesque  places,  which  will  yield 
enough  cement  material  for  all  our  needs. 
Sometimes  I  think  these  big  money-grabbers 


270     THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

just  love  to  ruin  Nature  with  their  old  picks 
and  powder.  You  may  agree  with  me  or  not — 
I  don't  care.  I'm  not  utilitarian,  and  don't  care 
who  knows  it.  The  world's  against  me  in  my 
big  fight  to  keep  the  money  hogs  from  robbing 
life  of  all  its  poetry;  but  it's  a  fight  to  the  last 
ditch!  I'll  save  Lime  Rock,  anyway,  if  I  have 
to  beg  and  borrow." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  disagree  with  you  at  all," 
he  told  her  softly.  "Money  doesn't  mean  a 
great  deal  to  me.  I've  shed  no  idle  tears  over 
my  failure  to  inherit  the  money  that  I  expected 
would  be  mine  at  Dad's  death.  I  hold  no  ill 
will  toward  Dad.  There's  too  much  wampum 
in  the  world  today.  It  won't  buy  much.  The 
more  people  have  the  more  they  want.  The  so- 
called  'standard  of  living'  continues  to  rise, 
and  with  it  the  ills  of  our  civilization  steadily 
increase.  Luxuries  ruin  health.  Automobiles 
make  our  muscles  sluggish,.  Moving  pictures 
clog  our  thinking  apparatus.  Telephones  make 
us  lazy.  Phonographs  and  piano-players  reduce 
our  appreciation  of  the  technique  of  music, 
which  can  come  only  by  study  and  practice. 
What  flying  machines  will  do  to  us  remains  to 
be  seen,  but  they'll  never  carry  us  to  heaven! 

"No,  money  means  little  enough  to  me.  Give 
me  the  big  outdoors  and  a  regular  horse,  a  keen 
zest  in  life,  and  true  appreciation  of  every  crea- 


THE  QUESTION  271 

ture  and  rock  and  tree  and  blade  that  God  has 
created,  and  I'll  struggle  along." 

As  he  talked  the  colour  had  been,  mounting  to 
her  face.  When  he  ceased  she  turned  starry 
eyes  upon  him,  her  white  teeth  showing  between 
slightly  parted  lips. 

"Oliver  Drew,"  she  said,  "you  have  made  me 
very  happy.  I — " 

A  rush  of  blood  throbbed  suddenly  at  Oliver's 
temples,  and  once  again  he  swung  his  horse  close 
to  hers. 

"I'll  try  to  make  you  happy  always,"  he  said 
low-voiced.  "Jessamy — "  Again  he  opened  his 
arms  for  her,  but  as  before  she  drew  herself 
away  from  him. 

"Don't!     Not — not  now!    Wait— Oliver !" 

"Wait!    Always  wait!    Why?" 

"I — I  must  tell  you  something  first.  I  can 
tell  you  now — after — after  last  night." 

"Then  tell  me  quickly,"  he  demanded. 

She  rested  both  hands  on  her  saddle  horn  and 
rose  in  her  stirrups.  For  a  long  time  her  black 
eyes  gazed  down  the  precipice  below  them,  while 
the  wind  whipped  wisps  of  hair  about  her  fore- 
head. Oliver  waited,  drunk  with  the  thought  of 
his  nearness  to  her. 

"Watchman  of  the  Dead!"  she  murmured  at 
last. 

Oliver  started. 


272      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Two  years  ago/'  she  went  on  softly,  "I  met 
the  second  Watchman  of  the  Dead.  You  are 
the  third.  The  first  was  murdered  in  this  for- 
est. His  name  was  Bolivio,  and  he  made  silver- 
mounted  saddles  and  hair-tasseled  bridles." 

Oliver  scarce  dared  to  breathe  for  fear  of 
breaking  the  spell  that  seemed  to  have  come  over 
her.  She  did  not  look  at  him.  She  continued 
to  gaze  into  her  beloved  canon  .and  at  her  be- 
loved hills  beyond. 

"Oh,  where  shall  I  begin!"  she  cried  at  last. 
"Where  is  the  beginning?  A  man  would  begin 
at  the  first,  I  suppose,  but  a  woman  just  can't! 
But  I  won't  be  true  to  the  feminine  method  and 
begin  at  the  end.  I  won't  be  a  copy-cat.  I'll  be- 
gin in  the  middle,  anyway." 

A  smile  flickered  across  her  red  lips ;  but  still 
she  gazed  away  from  him. 

"Two  years  ago,"  she  said,  "I  met  the  dearest 
man." 

Oliver  straightened,  and  lumps  shuttled  at  the 
hinges  of  his  jaws. 

"I  was  riding  White  Ann  on  one  of  my  lonely 
wanderings  through  the  woods.  I  met  him  on 
the  ridge  above  the  Old  Ivison  Place  and  the 
river. 

"After  that  I  met  him  many  times,  in  the  for- 
est and  elsewhere;  and  the  more  I  talked  with 


THE  QUESTION  273 

him  the  more  I  liked  him.  He  was  my  idea  of  a 
man." 

Oliver,  too,  was  now  gazing  into  the  canon, 
but  he  saw  neither  crags  nor  trees  nor  rushing 
green  river. 

"And  he  grew  to  like  me,"  her  low  tones  con- 
tinued. "We  talked  on  many  subjects,  but 
mostly  of  what  we've  been  talking  about  today. 

"He  was  an  idealist,  this  man.  He  was  com- 
paratively wealthy,  but  there  are  things  in  life 
that  he  placed  above  money  and  its  accumula- 
tion. By  and  by  he  grew  to  like  me  more  and 
more,  and  finally  he  told  me  point  blank  that 
I  was  his  ideal  woman;  and  then  he  grew  con- 
fidential and  told  me  all  about  himself — his  past, 
present,  and  what  he  hoped  for  in  the  future. 
And  in  my  hands  he  placed  a  trust.  Please 
God,  I  have  tried  to  keep  the  faith !" 

She  threw  back  her  head  and  followed  the 
flight  of  an  eagle  soaring  serenely  over  Lime 
Rock.  And  with  her  eyes  thus  lifted  she  softly 
said: 

"That  man  was  Peter  Drew — your  father." 

Oliver's  breast  heaved,  but  he  made  no  sound. 
Once  more  her  eyes  were  sweeping  the  abyss. 

"That's  the  middle,"  she  said.  "Now  I'll  go 
back  to  the  beginning  and  tell  you  what  Peter 
Drew  entrusted  to  my  keeping. 


274     THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

"Thirty  years  ago  Peter  Drew,  who  then 
called  himself  Dan  Smeed,  was  the  partner  of 
Adam  Selden.  They  mined  and  hunted  and 
trapped  together  throughout  this  country. 

"There  were  other  activities,  too,  which  I  shall 
not  mention.  You  understand.  Your  father 
told  me  all  about  it,  kept  nothing  back.  Re- 
member that  I  said  he  was  my  idea  of  a  man; 
and  if  in  his  youth  he  had  been  wild  and — well, 
seemed  criminally  inclined — I  found  that  easy 
to  forget.  Certainly  the  manliness  and  sacrifice 
of  his  later  years  wiped  out  all  this  a  thousand 
times. 

"Well,  to  proceed :  Peter  Drew  and  Adam  Sel- 
den married  Indian  girls.  Peter  Drew  won  out 
in  the  'fire  dance  and  became  a  member  of  the 
Showut  Poche-dakas.  Adam  Selden  failed,  and, 
according  to  the  custom,  took  his  wife  from  the 
tribe  and  lived  with  her  elsewhere.  Six  months 
afterward  the  wife  of  Selden  died. 

"Peter  Drew,  however,  having  become  a  recog- 
nized member  of  the  tribe,  was  taken  into  their 
full  confidence.  According  to  their  simple  be- 
lief, he  had  conquered  all  obstacles  that  stood 
between  him  and  this  affiliation;  therefore  the 
gods  had  ordained  that  full  trust  should  be 
placed  in  him.  And  with  their  beautiful  faith 
and  simplicity  they  did  not  question  his  honesty. 
So  according  to  an  old,  old  tradition  of  the  tribe 


THE  QUESTION  275 

the  white  man  was  appointed  Watchman  of  the 
Dead. 

"I  know  little  of  this  story.  All  of  the  tra- 
ditions of  the  Showut  Poche-dakas  are  clouded, 
so  far  as  our  interpretation  of  them  goes.  But 
it  appears,  from  what  your  father  told  me,  that 
ages  ago  a  white-skinned  chief  had  been  Watch- 
man of  the  Dead.  Mercy  knows  where  he  came 
from,  for,  so  far  as  history  goes,  the  whites  had 
not  then  invaded  the  country.  But  after  him, 
whenever  a  white-skinned  man  conquered  the  evil 
spirits  of  the  fire  and  became  a  member,  he  was 
appointed  Watchman  of  the  Dead.  So  in  the 
natural  order  of  things  the  honour  came  to 
Peter  Drew. 

"Up  to  this  time  the  only  other  Watchman  of 
the  Dead  remembered  by  even  old  Maquaquish 
and  Chupurosa  was  the  man  called  Bolivio. 
Holding  this  simple  office,  it  seems  that  Bolivio 
had  stumbled  upon  the  secret  so  jealously 
guarded  by  the  Showut  Poche-dakas.  He  tried 
to  turn  this  secret  information  to  his  own  ad- 
vantage, and  in  so  doing  he  broke  faith  with  the 
tribe  that  had  adopted  him  as  a  brother.  Found 
dead  in  the  forest  with  a  knife  in  his  heart,  is 
the  abrupt  climax  of  his  tale  of  treachery.  And 
so  the  tradition  of  the  lost  mine  of  Bolivio  had 
its  birth. 

"Centuries  ago,  no  doubt,  the  Showut  Poche- 


276      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

dakas  discovered  the  spodumene  gems  which 
were  responsible  for  the  fiction  concerning  the 
lost  mine  of  Bolivio.  They  polished  them 
crudely  and  worshipped  them.  Spodumene 
gems  always  are  found  in  pockets  in  the  rock, 
and  they  are  always  hidden  in  wet  clay  in  these 
pockets.  Solid  stone  will  be  all  about  them, 
with  no  trace  of  disintegrated  matter,  until  a 
pocket  is  struck.  Therein  will  be  found  separate 
stones  of  varying  sizes,  always  sealed  in  a 
natural  vacuum,  which  in  some  way  forever 
retains  moisture  in  the  clay. 

"This  peculiarity  appealed  to  the  supersti- 
tious natures  of  the  Showut  Poche-dakas.  It  is 
their  age-old  custom  to  bury  their  dead  in  pock- 
ets hacked  in  cliffs  of  solid  stones,  sealing  them 
with  a  cement  of  clay  and  pulverized  granite. 
One  can  readily  see  how  the  discovery  of  these 
beautiful  gems,  sealed  in  pockets  as  they  sealed 
their  dead,  might  affect  them.  They  deter- 
mined that  the  glittering  stones  represented  the 
bodies  of  their  ancestors,  and  from  that  time 
on  the  lilac-tinted  gems  became  something  to  be 
worshipped  and  guarded  faithfully. 

"Doubtless  when  Bolivio  was  appointed 
Watchman  of  the  Dead  he  was  told  this  secret, 
and  learned  where  the  stones  were  to  be  found. 
He  got  some  of  them,  and  sent  them  East  to 


THE  QUESTION  277 

find  out  whether  they  were  valuable.  He  pol- 
ished two,  and  placed  them  in  bridle  conchas. 
Then  before  word  came  from  New  York  the  In- 
dians stabbed  him  for  his  deceit. 

"His  elaborate  equestrian  outfit  remained 
with  the  tribe,  and  your  father  acquired  it  when 
he  became  Watchman  of  the  Dead.  For  some 
reason  unknown  to  him,  the  stones  were  allowed 
to  remain  in  the  conchas;  and  he  told  me  that  he 
always  imagined  them  to  be  a  symbol  of  his  of- 
fice. Anyway,  you,  Oliver  Drew,  are  the  Watch- 
man of  the  Dead,  and  your  right  to  own  and 
use  that  gem-mounted  bridle  goes  unchallenged 
by  the  Showut  Poche-dakas." 

She  paused  reflectively. 

"All  this  your  father  told  me,"  she  presently 
continued.  "He  told  me,  too,  that  the  secret 
place  where  the  gems  are  to  be  found  is  on  the 
Old  Ivison  Place.  It  was  unclaimed  land  then, 
and  your  father  camped  there  with  his  Indian 
wife,  as  was  demanded  of  the  Watchman  of  the 
Dead.  Before  his  time,  Bolivio  had  camped 
there.  Later,  Old  Man  Ivison  homesteaded  the 
place,  knowing  nothing  of  its  strange  history. 
He  was  a  kindly  old  man,  liked  by-  everybody; 
and  each  year  he  allowed  the  Indians  to  hold 
their  Mona  Fiesta  at  The  Four  Pools.  Thougli 
he  had  no  idea  why  they  held  it  in  this  exact 


278      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

spot  each  time — that  up  the  slope  above  them 
was  a  hidden  treasure  that  would  have  made  the 
struggling  homesteader  rich  for  life. 

"Then  your  father  told  me  the  worst  part  of 
it  all.  He  and  Selden,  it  seems,  had  found  out 
more  of  the  story  of  Bolivio  than  is  to  be  unrav- 
elled today,  with  most  of  the  old-timers  dead  and 
gone  and  the  Indians  always  closemouthed. 
Anyway,  they  two  found  out  about  the  secret 
gems  and  the  significance  of  the  fire  dance.  So 
they  had  planned  deliberately  to  marry  Indian 
girls  to  further  their  knowledge  of  this  matter. 

"It  was  understood  between  them  that  Adam 
Selden  would  intentionally  fail  to  win  out  in  the 
fire  dance,  and  that  Peter  Drew,  who  was  a 
Hercules  for  endurance  and  strength,  would  win 
if  he  could,  and  thus  become  Watchman  of  the 
Dead  and  learn  the  whereabouts  of  the  bril- 
liants. This  scheme  they  carried  out,  and  Peter 
Drew  took  up  residence  with  his  brown-skinned 
bride  on  what  is  today  the  Old  Ivison  Place. 

"Then  he  redeemed  himself  by  falling  in  love 
with  his  wife.  In  time  he  found  out  where  the 
gem  pockets  were  situated.  But  when  Selden 
came  to  him  to  see  if  he'd  stumbled  on  to  the  se- 
cret, he  put  him  off  and  said,  'Not  yet/ 

"From  the  date  of  the  Fiesta  de  Santa  Maria 
de  Eefugio  until  the  night  of  the  Mona  Fiesta 
he  remained  undecided  what  to  do.  Somehow 


THE  QUESTION  279 

or  other,  he  told  me,  though  he  had  been  a  high- 
wayman and  was  then  protected  from  the  flimsy 
law  of  that  day  only  by  his  Indian  brothers,  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  break  faith  with  them. 

"Then  came  the  night  of  the  first  Mona  Fiesta 
since  he  became  Watchman  of  the  Dead;  and 
that  night  temporarily  decided  him. 

"When  he  squatted  in  the  circle  about  the  fire 
and  saw  the  rapt,  tear-stained,  brown  faces  of 
these  people  who  had  placed  absolute  faith  in 
him,  he  fell  under  the  spell  of  their  simplicity, 
and  swore  that  so  long  as  he  lived  he  would  not 
betray  their  trust. 

"And  he  lived  up  to  it,  with  his  partner,  Adam 
Selden  importuning  him  daily  to  get  the  stones 
and  skip  the  country.  And  finally  to  be  rid  of 
Selden  and  the  double  game  he  was  obliged  to 
play,  Peter  Drew  left  with  his  wife  one  night 
and  did  not  return  for  fifteen  years. 

"And  since  then  there  has  been  no  Watchman 
of  the  Dead  until  the  night  you  defeated  the  evil 
spirits  in  the  fire  dance. 

"Out  in  the  world  of  white  men  Peter  Drew 
settled  down  to  ranching.  His  Indian  wife  had 
died  two  years  after  he  left  this  country.  With 
her  gone,  and  the  new  order  of  things  all  about 
him,  he  began  to  wonder  if  he  had  not  been  a 
fool. 

"Up  here  in  the  lonesome  hills  was  wealth  un- 


280      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

told,  so  far  as  he  knew,  and  he  renounced  it  for 
an  ideal.  To  secure  those  gems  he  had  only  to 
show  ingratitude  to  the  Showut  Poche-dakas, 
had  only  to  break  faith  with  a  handful  of  igno- 
rant, simple-minded  Indians.  What  did  they 
and  their  ridiculous  beliefs  amount  to  in  this 
great  scheme  of  life  as  he  now  saw  it?  Each 
day  men  on  every  hand  were  breaking  faith  to 
become  wealthy,  were  trampling  traditions  and 
ideals  underfoot  to  gain  their  golden  ends. 
Business  was  business — money  was  money! 
Had  he  not  been  a  fool?  Was  he  not  still  a  fool 
— to  renounce  a  fortune  that  was  his  for  the 
taking? 

"He  called  himself  an  ignorant  man.  He  told 
himself — and  truly,  too — that  countless  men 
whom  he  knew,  who  had  read  a  thousand  books 
to  one  merely  opened  by  him — men  of  educa- 
tion, men  of  affairs — would  laugh  at  him,  and 
themselves  would  have  wrested  the  treasure 
from  its  hiding  place  without  a  qualm  of  con- 
science. Civilization  was  stalking  on  in  its  un- 
conquerable march.  Should  a  handful  of  un- 
couth Indians,  a  superstitious,  dwindling  tribe 
of  near-savages,  be  permitted  to  handicap  his 
part  in  this  triumphal  march?  No — never! 

"But  always,  when  he  made  ready  to  return 
to  the  scenes  of  his  young  manhood,  there  came 
before  him  the  picture  of  brown,  tearstained 


THE  QUESTION  281 

faces  about  a  fire,  and  of  an  old  blind  man  speak- 
ing softly  as  if  telling  a  story  to  eager  children. 
Highwayman  Peter  Drew  had  been,  but  never  in 
his  life  had  he  broken  faith  with  a  friend.  Loy- 
alty was  the  very  backbone  of  my  idealist,  and 
he  turned  away  from  temptation  and  doggedly 
followed  his  plough. 

"For  thirty  years  and  more  the  question  faced 
him.  Should  he  get  the  gems  and  be  wealthy, 
and  break  faith  with  those  who  had  entrusted 
him  with  the  greatest  thing  in  their  lives — these 
people  who  had  called  him  brother,  whose  last 
remnant  of  food  or  shelter  was  his  for  the  ask- 
ing? Or  should  he  remain  an  idealist,  a  poor 
man,  but  loyal  to  his  trust?  The  answer  was 
No  or  Yes! 

"Can't  your  imagination  place  you  in  his 
shoes?  Unlettered,  not  sure  of  himself,  ashamed 
of  what  he  doubtless  termed  his  chicken-heart- 
edness.  Don't  you  know  that  all  of  us  are  con- 
stantly ashamed  of  our  secret  ideals — ashamed 
of  the  best  that  is  in  us?  We  fear  the  ridicule 
of  coarser  minds,  and  hide  what  is  Godlike  in 
our  hearts.  And  on  top  of  this,  your  father  was 
ignorant,  according  to  present  day  standards, 
and  knew  it.  But  for  thirty  years,  Oliver 
Drew,  he  prospered  while  his  idealism  fought 
the  battle  against  the  lust  for  wealth.  Idealism 
won,  but  Peter  Drew  died  not  knowing  whether 


282      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

he  had  been  a  wise  man  or  a  fool.     He  died  a 
conqueror.     Give  us  more   of   such  ignorance! 

"And  he  educated  you,  left  you  penniless,  and 
placed  his  momentous  question  in  your  keeping. 

"Fifteen  years  ago  he  bought  the  Old  Ivison 
Place,  though  the  Indians  do  not  know  it. 
Adam  Selden  has  searched  for  the  gems  without 
result  ever  since  Peter  Drew  left  the  country; 
and  it  was  because  of  him  that  your  father  kept 
his  purchase  a  secret.  Two  years  ago,  while 
you  were  in  France,  Peter  Drew  came  here, 
met  me  and  liked  me,  and  told  me  all  that  I 
have  told  you. 

"He  knew  that  when  you  rode  into  this  coun- 
try with  the  saddle  and  bridle  of  Bolivio  that  the 
Showut  Poche-dakas  would  know  who  you  were, 
and  would  take  you  in  and  make  you  Watchman 
of  the  Dead.  Peter  Drew  wanted  you  to  be 
penniless,  as  he  had  been  when  he  first  faced  the 
question.  He  gave  me  money  with  which  to 
help  along  the  cause.  So  far  I've  only  had 
to  use  it  for  liquid  courtplaster,  an  olla,  and  a 
few  bolts  of  calico.  You  were  to  learn  nothing 
of  the  story  from  my  lips.  You  were  to  face  the 
question  blindly,  with  no  other  influences  about 
you  save  those  that  he  had  experienced. 

"I  have  done  my  best  to  carry  out  his  wishes. 
You  are  the  Watchman  of  the  Dead.  You  own 
the  land  on  which  the  treasure  lies.  You  are 


THE  QUESTION  283 

brother  of  the  Showut  Poche-dakas.  The  treas- 
ure is  yours  almost  for  the  lifting  of  a  hand. 
You  are  almost  penniless. 

"There's  your  question,  Oliver  Drew.  Say 
Yes  and  the  gems  are  yours.  Say  No,  and  you 
have  forty  acres  of  almost  worthless  land,  a  sad- 
dle horse  and  outfit,  and  youth  and  health,  and 
the  lifetime  office  of  Watchman  of  the  Dead!1' 

She  ceased  speaking.  There  were  teara  in  her 
great  black  eyes  as  she  looked  at  him  levelly. 

"But— but— "  Oliver  floundered.  "I  don't 
know  where  the  gems  are.  Selden  has  hunted 
them  for  thirty  years,  and  has  failed  to  find 
them.  I've  seen  many  evidences  of  his  search. 
Will  the  Showut  Poche-dakas  tell  me  where  they 
are?" 

"Your  father  thought  that  perhaps,  after 
what  has  passed  in  connection  with  former 
Watchmen  of  the  Dead,  you  might  not  be  told 
the  exact  location.  So  he  made  provision  for 
that." 

She  reached  in  her  bosom  and  handed  him  an 
envelope  sealed  with  wax. 

On  it  he  read  in  his  father's  hand: 

"Map  showing  exact  location  of  what  is 
known  as  the  lost  mine  of  Bolivio." 

"If  you  open  it,"  she  said,  "your  answer  prob- 
ably will  be  No,  and  you  become  owner  of  the 
gems.  If  you  destroy  it  unopened,  your  answer 


284      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

is  Yes,  and  you  are  a  poor  man.  Yes  or  No, 
Oliver  Drew?  Think  over  it  tonight,  and  I'll 
meet  you  here  tomorrow  at  noon." 

"What  do  you  want  my  answer  to  be?"  he 
asked. 

"I  have  no  right  to  express  my  wishes  in  the 
matter,"  she  said.  "And  your  answer  is  not 
to  be  told  to  me,  you  must  remember,  but  to  your 
father's  lawyers." 

Then  she  turned  White  Ann  into  the  narrow* 
trail  that  led  from  Lime  Kock. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IN   THE  DEER   PATH 

THE  morning  following  the  trip  to  Lime 
Rock,    Oliver   Drew   sat   at   his   little 
home-made  desk,  his  mind  not  on  the 
work  before  him.     Tilted  against  the  ink  bottle 
stood  the  long,  tough  envelope  that  Jessamy  had 
given  him,  its  black-wax  seals  still  unbroken. 
He  stared  at  it  with  unseeing  eyes. 

After  they  had  left  Lime  Rock,  Jessamy  had 
given  him  a  little  more  information  on  the  sub- 
ject which  now  loomed  so  big  in  his  life. 

She  thought,  she  had  said,  that  for  years  the 
Showut  Poche-dakas  had  suspected  Old  Man 
Selden  of  knowing  something  of  their  secret. 
They  could  not  have  missed  seeing  the  gophering 
that  the  old  man  had  done  on  the  hillside  above 
The  Four  Pools.  She  knew  positively  that  the 
Indians  had  kept  a  watchful  eye  on  him,  and  it 
could  be  for  no  other  reason. 

The  episode  concerning  Oliver's  bayonet 
wound  had  come  as  a  complete  surprise  to  her. 
It  seemed  now,  she  said,  that  Peter  Drew  had 
communicated  with  Chupurosa  not  long  before 

285 


286     THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

his  death,  and  after  Oliver's  return  from  France, 
and  had  told  him  to  be  prepared  for  the  coming 
of  his  son  and  how  to  make  sure  that  he  was  gen- 
uine. She  had  not  known  that  Peter  Drew  had 
been  in  the  Poison  Oak  Country  again,  since  he 
left  after  entrusting  her  with  a  hand  in  guiding 
Oliver's  future. 

She  told  of  having  overheard  Adam  Selden 
and  Oliver's  conversation  that  night  at  Poison 
Oak  Kanch,  and  of  the  other  eavesdropper  who 
had  stolen  down  from  the  spring.  She  was  al- 
most sure,  she  told  him,  that  this  man  was  Dig- 
ger Foss;  but  whether  or  not  Foss  knew  of  the 
treasure  she  could  not  determine.  Apparently, 
though,  he  suspected  something  of  the  kind,  and 
had  been  looking  out  for  his  own  interests  that 
night. 

Yes,  it  was  the  bridle  and  saddle  and  the  gem- 
mounted  conchas  that  had  changed  Selden's  at- 
titude toward  Oliver.  The  underlying  reason 
for  his  wishing  Oliver  off  the  Old  Ivison  Place 
had  been  the  fear  that  the  search  for  the  gems, 
which  he  had  carried  on  intermittently  for  so 
long,  would  be  interrupted.  But  to  his  gang  he 
had  pretended  that  it  was  sheer  deviltry  that 
caused  him  to  contemplate  driving  the  newcomer 
out. 

Then  a  sight  of  the  gem-mounted  conchas  of 
his  old  partner,  and  the  fact  that  Oliver  was  at 


IN  THE  DEER  PATH  287 

once  taken  into  brotherhood  by  the  Showut 
Poche-dakas  changed  his  plans.  Oliver  knew  of 
the  gems  and  had  come  to  seek  them.  He  either 
was  Dan  Smeed's  son,  or  had  been  taken  into 
Dan  Smeed's  confidence.  Oliver  would  become 
Watchman  of  the  Dead.  If  he  did  not  already 
know  the  location  of  the  stones,  he  soon  might 
learn  it  from  the  Indians.  His  friendship  must 
be  cultivated  by  all  means,  so  that  Selden  might 
have  the  better  chance  of  obtaining  what  he  con- 
sidered his  rightful  share  of  the  treasure. 

Oliver  had  then  told  Jessamy  of  the  prospect 
holes  on  the  hillside,  of  Digger  Foss's  spying  on 
the  cabin,  of  Tommy  My-Ma's  strange  actions, 
and  of  the  lithia  he  had  found. 

"Yes,  lithia  is  an  indication  of  gems/'  she  had 
told  him.  "And  it  would  appear  that  Digger 
knows  of  the  treasure,  after  all.  Perhaps  some- 
time Selden  confided  in  him  in  a  careless  mo- 
ment, to  enlist  his  aid  in  the  search.  They're 
pretty  confidential.  Digger  was  watching  your 
movements,  to  see  if  you  had  any  definite  idea  of 
the  location  of  the  stones  or  were  searching  for 
them  blindly.  That's  it !  He  knows !  But  still 
he's  suspicious  of  Old  Man  Selden.  All  of  the 
Poison  Oakers  are  now.  They  think  he's  double- 
crossing  them  some  way,  since  he  made  friends 
with  you. 

"As  for  Tommy  My-Ma  trailing  Digger,  I'm 


288      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

not  surprised.  No  doubt  the  Showut  Poche- 
dakas  are  watching  Old  Man  Selden  and  his 
gang  as  respects  their  attitude  toward  the  new 
Watchman  of  the  Dead.  If  the  Poison  Oakers 
had  tried  actually  to  molest  you,  I  have  an  idea 
they'd  have  found  they'd  bitten  off  a  chunk.  I 
think  they  would  have  had  fifty  Showut  Poche- 
dakas  on  their  backs  before  they  had  gone  very 
far." 

All  this  passed  through  Oliver's  mind  again 
and  again  this  morning,  as  he  sat  there  with  pipe 
gone  out  and  idle  pencil  in  his  fingers. 

What  a  romance  that  old  father  had  woven 
about  the  life  of  his  son!  How  skilfully  and 
craftily  he  had  planned  so  that  Oliver  would  be 
thrown  on  his  own  resources  for  an  answer  when 
he  came  face  to  face  with  the  question!  How 
cleverly  Jessamy  had  carried  out  the  part  en- 
trusted to  her,  despite  her  aversion  to  intrigues 
and  plottings !  Step  by  step  she  had  led  him  on 
till  at  last  the  question  confronted  him,  just  as 
it  had  confronted  his  father  before  him. 

To  gain  possession  of  the  gems  would  be  a 
simple  matter.  They  were  on  his  land  some- 
where— were  his  by  every  right  in  law.  He  had 
but  to  invoke  the  protection  of  the  keepers  of 
the  peace  against  the  Indians,  break  the  seals 
of  the  long  envelope,  and  dig  in  the  place  indi- 
cated by  the -map  this  envelope  contained. 


IN  THE  DEER  PATH  289 

But  there  was  one  thing  which  doubtless 
Peter  Drew  had  not  foreseen  in  his  careful  plan- 
ning. He  could  not  have  known  that  his  son 
was  to  fall  desperately  in  love  with  the  guiding 
star  that  he  had  appointed  for  him.  And  Oliver 
Drew  knew  in  his  heart  that  if  he  robbed  the  In- 
dians of  these  gems,  which  were  to  them  only  a 
symbol  and  had  no  meaning  connected  with 
worldly  wealth,  he  would  lose  the  girl.  The 
only  thing  that  stood  between  Jessamy  and  him, 
he  now  believed,  was  her  uncertainty  of  what  his 
answer  to  the  question  would  be.  In  her  staunch 
heart  she  respected  the  belief  of  the  Showut 
Poche-dakas,  and  to  her  the  gems  as  a  symbol 
were  as  worthy  of  her  reverence  as  the  Sacred 
Book  of  the  Christians.  "I  have  as  much  rever- 
ence for  a  bare-headed  Indian  girl  on  her  knees 
to  the  Sun  God  as  for  a  hooded  nun  counting  her 
beads,"  she  had  said. 

Oliver  stared  at  the  inside  of  the  cabin  door, 
scarred  and  carved  and  full  of  bullet  holes — at 
JESSAMY,  MY  SWEETHEART. 

Peter  Drew  could  not  have  foreseen  this  phase 
of  the  situation.  In  securing  the  gems  Oliver 
Drew  not  only  would  lose  his  self-respect 
and  make  his  father's  thirty  years  of 
sacrifice  a  mockery,  but  he  would  lose  the  girl 
he  loved. 

So  Oliver  took  small  credit  to  himself  when  he 


290      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

rose  from  his  desk  at  eleven  o'clock,  his  mind 
made  up. 

He  placed  the  letter  unopened  in  his  shirt 
front,  and  went  out  and  saddled  Poche.  Then 
he  rode  to  the  backbone  and  wormed  his  way 
along  it  toward  Lime  Rock. 

Jessamy  was  there  ahead  of  him,  sitting  erect 
on  White  Ann's  back,  gazing  upon  the  rugged 
objects  of  her  daily  adoration. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "you've  come,"  and  her  level 
eyes  searched  him  through  and  through. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  riding  to  her  side,  "I've 
come;  and  my  mind's  made  up." 

She  raised  her  dark  brows  in  an  attempt  to 
betoken  a  mild  struggle  between  politeness  and 
indifference;  but  the  hand  on  her  saddle  horn 
trembled,  and  the  red  had  gone  out  of  her 
cheeks. 

"I  must  get  out  of  here  tomorrow,"  he  said, 
"and  go  to  Los  Angeles.  I've  just  about  enough 
money  to  take  me  there  and  back;  but  I  have 
the  unbounded  faith  of  an  amateur  in  several 
farm  articles  now  in  editors'  hands." 

She  lowered  black  lashes  over  her  eyes  and 
nodded  slowly  up  and  down. 

"Exactly,"  she  said.  "You  must  carry  out 
Peter  Drew's  instructions  to  the  letter." 

"But  I  can  tell  you  what  my  answer  to  Dad's 
lawyers  is  going  to  be.  I — " 


IN  THE  DEER  PATH  291 

"Don't !"  she  cried,  raising  a  protesting  hand. 
"Not  a  word  to  me.  My  responsibility  ceased 
when  I  placed  the  envelope  in  your  hands.  I'm 
no  longer  concerned  in  the  matter.  That  is — " 
she  hesitated. 

"Yes,  go  on." 

"Until  after  you  nave  made  your  report  to  the 
attorneys,"  she  added.  "Then,  of  course,  I'll— 
I'll  be  sort  of  curious  to  know  what  your  an- 
swer is." 

"Then  I'll  come  straight  back  to  tell  you,"  he 
promised.  "And—  Why,  what's  the  matter!" 

She  had  leaned  forward  suddenly  in  her  sad- 
dle, and  with  wide  eyes  was  looking  down  the 
precipice.  Then  before  she  could  answer  there 
came  to  Oliver's  hearing  the  sound  of  a  distant 
shot  from  the  canon. 

Now  he  saw  a  puff  of  white  smoke  above  the 
willows  on  the  river  bank,  a  thousand  feet  below 
them.  Then  a  second,  and  by  and  by  another 
ringing  report  reached  them,  and  the  echoes  of 
it  went  loping  from  wall  to  wall  of  the  canon. 

"Merciful  heavens!"  cried  Jessainy.  "It's 
Old  Man  Selden!  He's  shot!  Look  at  him  reel 
in  his  saddle!  Oh,  horrors!  .  .  .  There  he  goes 
down  on  the  ground !  .  .  .  But  he's  not  killed ! 
There — he's  on  his  feet  and  shooting!" 

Oliver,  with  open  mouth,  was  staring  down  at 
the  tragedy  that  had  suddenly  been  staged  for 


292      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

them  in  the  river  bed.  Now  several  puffs  of 
white  smoke  hung  over  the  trees,  and  riders  rode 
hither  and  thither  like  pigmies  on  pigmy  horses. 
Now  and  then  a  stream  of  flame  spurted  horizon- 
tally, and  at  once  another  answered  it.  Then 
up  barked  the  reports,  followed  by  their  mock- 
ing echoes. 

"It's  come!  It's  come!"  wailed  Jessamy. 
"Obed  Pence,  likely  as  not,  has  opened  fire  on 
Old  Man  Selden,  and  the  boys  are  after  him. 
Look — there's  Chuck  and  Bolar  and  Jay  and 
Winthrop — and,  oh,  most  all  of  them!  It's  a 
general  fight.  Oh,  I  knew  it  would  come!  I 
knew  it !  Obed  Pence  has  been  so  nasty  of  late. 
They  were  all  drunk  last  night.  Poor  mother! 
Oh,  what  shall  we  do,  Oliver?  What  can  we 
do?  We  can't  get  down  to  them!" 

"And  could  do  nothing  if  we  did,"  he  said 
tensely. 

Down  below  six-shooters  still  popped,  and  the 
balls  of  smoke  continued  to  grow  in  number  over 
the  willows.  Horsemen  dashed  madly  about, 
shouting,  firing.  The  two  watchers  learned 
later  that  Obed  Pence,  supported  by  Muenster, 
Allegan,  and  Buchanan — all  drunk  for  two  days 
on  the  fiery  monkey  rum — had  lain  in  wait  for 
Old  Man  Selden,  and  Pence  had  ridden  out  and 
confronted  him  as  he  rode  down  the  river  trail, 
supposedly  alone.  But  the  Selden  boys  for  days 


IN  THE  DEER  PATH  293 

had  been  hovering  in  the  background,  to  see  that 
their  father  got  a  square  deal  when  he  and  Obed 
Pence  next  met.  Pence  and  Adam  Selden  had 
drawn  simultaneously;  but  the  hammer  of  the 
old  man's  Colt  had  caught  in  the  fringe  of  his 
chaps,  and  Obed  had  shot  him  through  the  left 
lung.  Knowing  their  father  to  be  a  master  gun- 
man, his  sons,  who  had  not  been  close  enough  to 
witness  the  encounter,  had  jumped  to  the  con- 
clusion that  Pence  had  fired  from  ambush. 
They  charged  in  accordingly,  and  opened  fire  on 
Pence,  killing  him  instantly.  Then  Pence's  sup- 
porters had  ridden  forth  in  turn,  and  the  gen- 
eral gun  fight  was  on. 

"I  can't  sit  here  and  see  them  murdering  one 
another!"  Jessamy  sobbed  piteously.  "They — 
they  all  may  need  killing,  but — but  I've  lived 
with  the  old  man  and  the  boys,  and — and — My 
mother!"  The  tears  streamed  down  her  cheeks 
as  she  made  a  trumpet  of  her  hands  and 
shouted  down  the  precipice: 

"Stop  it!     Stop  it  at  once,  I  say!" 

Only  the  echoes  of  her  piercing  cry  made  an- 
swer, and  she  wrung  her  hands  and  beat  her 
breast  in  anguish. 

"I'm  going  for  help!"  she  cried  abruptly. 
"They'll  get  behind  trees  pretty  soon,  and  fight 
from  cover.  I'll  ride  to  Halfmoon  Plat  for  the 
constable  and  a  posse  to  put  a  stop  to  this. 


294     THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

Can't — can't  you  ride  up  the  trail  and  find  a 
way  down  to  them,  Oliver?  Old  Man  Selden 
maybe  will  listen  to  you.  Oh,  maybe  you  can 
patch  up  peace  between  them!" 

"I'll  try,"  said  Oliver  grimly. 

She  wheeled  White  Ann  and  entered  the  nar- 
row trail.  Oliver  followed.  Recklessly  she 
moved  her  mare  at  her  rolling  singlefoot  along 
the  dangerous  trail,  and  eventually  came  out  on 
the  hillside.  At  once  White  Ann  leaped  for- 
ward and  sped  over  the  hills,  a  streak  of  silver 
in  the  noonday  sun. 

Oliver  loped  Poche  to  an  obscure  deer  path 
that  led  down  to  the  river,  and  as  swiftly  as  pos- 
sible began  negotiating  it. 

He  had  not  progressed  twenty  yards  when  the 
chaparral  before  him  suddenly  parted,  and  Dig- 
ger Foss  confronted  him,  his  wicked  Colt  held 
waist-high  and  levelled. 

"Stick  'em  up!"  he  growled.     "Be  quick!" 

Thoroughly  surprised,  Oliver  reined  in,  and 
Poche  began  to  dance.  Mechanically  Oliver 
raised  his  hands  above  his  head,  then  almost  re- 
gretted that  he  had  not  tried  to  draw.  But  the 
picture  of  Henry  Dodd  reeling  against  the  legs 
of  Jessamy's  mare  had  been  with  him  since  his 
first  day  in  the  Poison  Oakers'  country.  He 
knew  that  the  halfbreed's  aim  was  sure,  and  that 
his  heart  was  a  reservoir  of  venom. 


IN  THE  DEER  PATH  295 

The  first  shock  passed,  his  composure  re- 
turned in  a  measure.  There  stood  the  half- 
breed,  spread-legged  in  the  path.  The  lids  of 
his  Mongolic  eyes  were  lowered,  and  the  beads 
of  jet  glittered  wickedly  from  under  them.  He 
was  drunk  as  a  lord,  Oliver  knew  quite  well  from 
the  augmented  insolence  of  his  cruel  lips;  but 
Oliver  knew  that  he  might  be  all  the  more 
deadly,  and  that  some  drunken  gun  men  can 
shoot  better  than  when  sober. 

"What  is  this? — a  holdup?"  he  asked,  and 
bit  his  lip  as  he  noted  the  tremble  in  his 
tones. 

"A  holdup  is  right,''  said  Foss.  "A  holdup, 
an'  a  little  business  matter  you  and  me's  got  to 
attend  to." 

"Well,  let's  get  at  it !"  Oliver  snapped. 

"I'm  gonta  kill  you  after  our  business  is  set- 
tled," Foss  told  him  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone. 

A  cold  chill  ran  along  Oliver's  spine.  Should 
he  make  a  dive  for  his  gun?  Foss  had  every  ad- 
vantage, but — 

Foss  was  stepping  lazily  nearer,  his  eyes  in- 
tent on  the  horseman,  Ms  six-shooter  ready. 

"Down  there  by  the  river  they're  fightin'  it  out 
all  because  o'  you  buttin'  into  this  country, 
where  you  ain't  wanted."  Foss  had  come  to  a 
stop,  and  was  leering  up  at  him.  "You've  made 
trouble  ever  since  you  come  here.  Old  Man 


296      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

won't  get  rid  o'  you,  but  I'm  goin'  to  today. 
But  first,  where's  them  gems?" 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  said  Oliver. 

"You're  a  liar!" 

"Thank  you.  You  have  the  advantage  of  me, 
you  know.  Slip  your  gun  in  the  holster,  and 
then  call  me  a  liar.  I'll  draw  with  you.  My 
hands  are  up — you'll  still  have  the  advantage  of 
having  your  hand  closer  to  your  gun  butt." 

"D'ye  think  you  could  draw  with  me?" 

"I  know  it.  And  before  you.  Try  it  and 
see!" 

Foss  studied  over  this.  "Maybe — maybe!"  he 
said.  "I  never  did  throw  down  on  a  man  with- 
out givin'  'im  a  chance.  But  you  got  no  chance 
with  me,  kid.  They  don't  make  'em  that  can 
get  the  drop  on  Digger  Foss!" 

"I'll  take  a  chance,"  said  Oliver  quietly. 

"We'll  see  about  that  later.  But  where's 
them  stones?" 

"I  don't  know,  I  tell  you." 

"What  did  you  come  up  in  this  country  for?" 

"On  matters  that  concern  me  alone." 

"No  doubt  o'  that — or  so  you  think.  But 
they're  interestin'  to  me,  too.  What's  in  that 
letter  Jess'my  handed  you  at  Lime  Eock  yes- 
terday?" 

"Oh,  you  were  sneaking  about  and  saw  that, 


IN  THE  DEER  PATH  297 

were  you!  Through  your  glasses,  I  suppose. 
Well,  I  haven't  opened  it,  and  don't  know  what's 
in  it.  If  I  did  I  wouldn't  tell  you.  My  arms 
are  growing  a  little  tired.  Will  you  holster 
your  gun  and  give  me  a  chance  before  my  arms 
play  out?" 

"I  will  if  you  come  across  with  what  you 
know  about  the  gems.  You  might  as  well.  If 
I  kill  you,  you  won't  be  worryin'  about  gems. 
And  if  you  croak  me,  why,  what  if  you  did  tell 
me?— I'm  dead,  ain't  I?" 

"There's  sound  logic  in  that,"  said  Oliver 
grimly.  "I'll  take  you  up.  Put  your  gun  in  its 
holster  and  drop  your  hands  to  your  sides. 
Then  we'll  draw,  with  your  gun  hand  three  feet 
nearer  your  gun  than  mine  will  be.  Come !  I've 
got  business  down  below." 

The  half  breed's  eyes  widened  in  unbelief. 
"D'ye  really  mean  it,  kid?  You  saw  me  shoot 
Henry  Dodd — d'ye  really  wanta  draw  with  me?" 

"I  do." 

"But  then  you'll  be  dead,  and  I  won't  know 
nothin'  about  the  gems.  Unless  that  letter 
tells?" 

"Perhaps.  You  mustn't  expect  me  to  take  all 
the  chances,  you  know." 

"Does  the  letter  tell?" 

"I  haven't  opened  it,  I  say." 


298      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

Foss  studied  in  drunken  seriousness.  "And 
if  you  should  happen  to  get  me,  why — why, 
where  am  I  at  again?"  he  puzzled. 

Oliver  laughed  outright.  "You're  an  amus- 
ing creature,"  he  said.  "I  don't  believe  you're 
half  the  badman  that  you  imagine  you  are."  He 
believed  nothing  of  the  sort,  but  his  arms  were 
growing  desperately  weary  and  he  must  goad 
the  drunken  gunman  into  immediate  action. 

"There's  just  one  thing  that's  the  matter  with 
jou,"  he  gibed  on,  ready  to  descend  to  any 
speech  that  would  cut  the  killer  and  break  his 
deadly  calm.  "That's  my  getting  your  girl 
away  from  you!  It's  not  the  gems;  it's  that 
that  hurts  you.  Why,  say,  do  you  think  she'd 
wipe  her  feet  on  you!" 

Into  the  eyes  of  the  halfbreed  came  a  viperish 
light  that  almost  stilled  Oliver's  heartbeats. 
For  an  instant  he  feared  that  he  had  gone  too 
far,  that  Foss  was  about  to  shoot  him  down  in 
cold  blood. 

Foss  stood  spread-legged  in  the  path,  as  be- 
fore, his  face  twisting  with  anger,  the  fingers  of 
his  left  hand  clinching  and  unclinching  them- 
selves. Then  Oliver  almost  ceased  to  breathe 
as  a  silent,  dark  figure  slipped  wraithlike  from 
the  chaparral  and  began  stealing  toward  the 
back  of  Digger  Foss. 

"That  settles  it,"  said  Foss.     "I'll  kill  you  for 


IN  THE  DEER  PATH  299 

that,  gems  or  no  gems !  Get  ready !  If  you  let 
down  a  hand  while  I'm  puttin'  up  my  gun  I'll 
kill  you  like  that!"  He  snapped  the  fingers  of 
his  left  hand. 

"I'll  stick  by  my  bargain,"  Oliver  assured  him, 
his  glance  struggling  between  Foss  and  that  si- 
lent figure  slinking  in  his  rear. 

What  should  he  do?  There  was  murder  in 
the  black  eyes  of  the  man  who  stole  so  stealthily 
upon  the  gunman's  back.  Should  he  shout  to 
Foss?  His  sense  of  fair  play  cried  out  that  he 
should.  But  Foss  might  misinterpret  the  mean- 
ing of  his  upraised  voice,  and  fire.  Should  he — 
"•Here  goes!  I'm  puttin'  up  my  gun.  Get 
ready,  kid!  When  I—" 

There  was  a  leap,  a  flash  of  steel  in  the  sun- 
light, a  scream  of  agonizing  pain. 

Oliver's  gun  was  out  and  levelled;  but  Foss 
was  staggering  from  side  to  side,  his  arms 
limp  before  him,  his  head  lopped  forward  as  if 
he  searched  for  something  on  the  ground.  He 
collapsed  and  lay  there  gasping  hideously  in  the 
path,  in  a  growing  pool  of  blood. 

The  chaparral  opened  and  closed  again;  and 
then  only  Oliver  and  the  man  in  his  death  throes 
were  remaining. 

Even  as  Bolivio  had  died,  so  died  Digger  Foss, 
in  a  path  in  the  wilderness,  with  the  knife  of  a 
Showut  Poche-daka  in  his  back. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  ANSWER 

TWO  weeks  had  passed  since  the  battle  of 
the  Poison  Oakers.     That  organization 
was  now  no  more.     Jessamy's  efforts  to 
mobilize  a  posse  to  stop  the  fight  had  proved 
fruitless.     Only     the     constable     and     Damon 
Tamroy  rode  back  with  her  with  first  aid  pack- 
ages, for  Halfmoon  Flat  had  voiced  its  indiffer- 
ence in  a  single  sentence — "Let  'em  fight  it  out !" 
Those  whom  the  constable  would  have  deputized 
promptly  made  themselves  scarce. 

So  the  Poison  Oakers  had  fought  it  out,  and  in 
so  doing  appended  "Finis"  to  the  annals  of  their 
gang.  Old  Man  Selden  died  two  days  after  the 
battle.  Winthrop  was  killed  outright,  and 
Moffat  was  seriously  wounded,  but  might  re- 
cover. Obed  Pence  was  dead;  Digger  Foss  was 
dead.  Jay  Muenster  was  dead.  Thus  half  of 
their  numbers  were  wiped  out,  and  among  them 
the  controlling  genius  of  the  gang,  Old  Man  Sel- 
den. And  without  him  those  remaining,  al- 
ready split  into  two  factions,  were  as  a  ship 
without  a  rudder. 

300 


THE  ANSWER  301 

And  all  because  of  Oliver  Drew! 

Oliver  stepped  from  the  train  at  Half  moon 
Flat  this  afternoon,  two  weeks  after  the  fight. 
He  had  helped  Jessamy  and  her  mother  through 
the  difficulties  arising  from  the  tragedy,  had 
appeared  as  witness  at  the  inquest,  and  had  then 
hurried  to  Los  Angeles  with  his  sealed  envelope. 
Now,  returning,  he  caught  Poche  in  a  pasture 
close  to  the  village  and  saddled  him. 

It  was  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  He  had 
lunched  on  the  diner,  so  at  once  he  lifted  Poche 
into  his  mile-devouring  lope  and  headed  straight 
for  Poison  Oak  Ranch. 

What  changes  had  taken  place  since  first  he 
galloped  along  that  road,  barely  four  months 
before !  Few  with  whom  he  had  come  in  contact 
were  still  pursuing  the  even  tenor  of  their  ways, 
as  then.  He  thought  of  the  fight  and  of  the 
spectacular  death  of  Digger  Foss.  At  the  in- 
quest he  had  been  unable  to  throw  any  light  on 
the  identity  of  the  halfbreed's  murderer.  He 
was  an  Indian — beyond  this  Oliver  could  say  no 
more.  The  coroner  had  quizzed  him  sharply. 
Whereupon  Oliver  had  asked  that  official  if  he 
himself  thought  it  likely  that  he  could  have 
looked  into  the  muzzle  of  a  Colt  revolver  in  the 
hands  of  Digger  Foss,  and  at  the  same  time  make 
sure  of  the  identity  of  a  man  stealing  up  behind 
him.  The  coroner  had  scratched  his  head.  "I 


302      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

reckon  I'd  'a'  been  tol'able  int'rested  in  that  gun 
o'  Digger's/'  was  his  confession. 

And  Oliver  had  told  the  truth.  To  this  day 
he  does  not  know  who  killed  the  gunman — but  he 
knows  that  in  all  probability  his  own  life  was 
saved  when  it  occurred,  and  that  it  was  a 
Showut  Poche-daka  who  struck  the  blow. 

At  Poison  Oak  Ranch  he  found  Jessamy  await- 
ing him.  He  had  sent  her  a  wire  the  day  before, 
telling  her  he  was  coming,  and  the  hour  he  would 
arrive. 

They  shook  hands  soberly,  and  after  a  short 
conversation  with  Mrs.  Selden,  Oliver  saddled 
White  Ann  for  Jessamy  and  they  rode  away  in- 
to the  hills.  They  were  for  the  most  part  silent 
as  their  horses  jogged  along  manzanita-bordered 
trails.  Instinctively  they  avoided  Lime  Rock 
and  its  vicinity,  and  made  toward  the  north,  up 
over  the  hog-back  hills,  now  sear  and  yellow, 
which  climbed  in  interminable  ranks  to  the 
snowy  peaks.  They  came  to  a  ledge  that  over- 
looked the  river,  and  here  they  halted  while  the 
girl  gazed  down  on  scenes  that  never  wearied  her. 

They  dismounted  presently  and  seated  them- 
selves on  two  great  grey  stones.  Jessamy  rested 
her  round  chin  in  her  hand,  and  from  under  long 
lashes  watched  the  green  river  winding  about  its 
serpentine  curves  below. 


THE  ANSWER  303 

The  tragedy  of  death  had  left  its  mark  on  her 
face.  There  was  a  sober,  half-pathetic  droop  to 
the  red  lips.  The  comradely  black  eyes  were 
thoughtful.  But  the  self-reliant  poise  of  the 
sturdy  shoulders  still  was  hers,  and  the  sense  of 
strength  that  she  exhaled  was  not  impaired. 

Her  dress  today  was  not  rugged,  as  was  or- 
dinarily the  case  when  she  rode  into  the  hills. 
She  wore  a  black  divided  skirt,  and  a  low-neck 
yellow-silk  waist,  trimmed  with  black,  and  a 
black-silk  sailor's  neckerchief.  To  further  this 
effect  a  yellow  rose  nestled  in  her  night-black 
hair.  She  looked  like  a  gorgeous  California 
oriole,  so  trim  was  her  figure,  so  like  that  bird's 
were  the  contrast  of  colours  she  displayed.  And 
her  voice  when  she  spoke,  low  and  clear  and 
throbbing  melodiously,  reminded  him  of  the 
notes  of  this  same  sweet  songster  at  nesting  time. 

Oliver  sat  looking  at  the  profile  of  her  face, 
with  the  wind-whipped  hair  about  it.  More 
fully  than  ever  now  he  realized  that  she  was 
everything  in  life  to  him.  And  today — now! — 
smilingly,  unabashed. 

"Well,  Jessamy,"  he  began,  "I  have  seen  Dad's 
lawyers."  She  turned  her  face  toward  him,  but 
still  rested  her  elbow  on  her  knee,  one  cheek  now 
cupped  by  her  hand. 

"Yes,"  she  said  softly.    "Tell  me  all  about  it." 


"And  I  gave  them  my  answer  to  the  question." 

For  several  moments  her  level  glance  searched 
his  face,  a  little  smile  on  her  lips. 

"And  what  is  your  answer?"  she  asked. 

He  rose  and  moved  to  the  stone  on  which  she 
sat,  seating  himself  beside  her. 

"Don't  you  know  what  my  answer  is?"  he 
asked  softly. 

She  continued  to  look  at  him  fearlessly, 
smilingly,  unabashed. 

"I  think  I  know,"  she  said.     "But  tell  me." 

"My  answer,"  he  said,  "is  the  same  that  dear 
old  Dad  kept  repeating  for  thirty  years.  I  shall 
not  enrich  myself  by  sacrificing  the  confidence 
placed  in  me.  I  shall  remain  loyal  to  my  simple 
trust.  I  am  the  Watchman  of  the  Dead." 

Her  lips  quivered  and  her  eyes  glowed  warmly, 
and  two  tears  trickled  down  her  cheeks.  Oliver 
took  from  his  shirt  the  envelope  and  showed  her 
the  black  seals,  still  unbroken.  Then  on  a  flat 
rock  before  them  he  made  a  tiny  fire  of  grass  and 
twigs,  and  placed  the  envelope  on  top  of  it. 
Then  he  lighted  a  match. 

"The  funeral  pyre  of  my  worldly  fortune !"  he 
apostrophized.  "The  lost  mine  of  Bolivio  will 
be  lost  indeed  when  the  map  has  burned." 

Together  they  watched  the  tiny  fire  in  silence, 
till  the  black  wax  sputtered  and  dripped  down 
on  the  stone,  and  the  eager  flames  crinkled  the 


THE  ANSWER  305 

envelope  and  its  contents  and  reduced  them  to 
ashes. 

"And  now?"  said  Oliver. 

"And  now !"  echoed  Jessamy. 

He  slowly  placed  both  arms  about  her  and 
lifted  her,  unresisting,  to  her  feet.  He  drew  her 
close,  brushed  back  her  hair,  and  looked  deep  into 
eyes  from  which  tears  streamed  unrestrained. 
Then  she  threw  her  arms  about  his  shoulders, 
and,  with  a  glad  laugh,  half  hysterical,  she  drew 
his  head  down  and  kissed  him  time  and  again. 

His  hour  had  come.  Oliver  Drew  had  cap- 
tured the  star  that  had  led  him  on  and  on — his 
Star  of  Destiny.  Warm  were  her  lips  and  trem- 
ulous— glowing  were  her  eyes  for  love  of  him. 
His  pulse  leaped  madly  as  she  gave  herself  to  him 
in  absolute  surrender. 

"There's  another  matter,"  he  said  five  minutes 
later,  as  she  lay  silent  in  his  arms,  with  the 
fragrance  of  her  hair  in  his  nostrils.  "Old  Dan- 
forth,  the  head  of  the  firm  of  attorneys  that 
attended  to  Dad's  affairs,  looked  at  me  keenly 
from  under  shaggy  brows  when  I  gave  my  an- 
swer. 

"'So  it's  No,  is  it,  young  man?'  he  said. 

"  'No  it  is/  I  told  him. 

"  'In  that  case,'  he  said,  'you  are  to  come  with 
me.' 

"He  took  me  to  a  bank  and  opened  a  safe-de- 


306      THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  HILLS 

posit  box  in  the  vaults.  He  showed  me  bonds 
totalling  over  a  hundred  thousand  dollars,  and 
cash  that  represented  the  interest  coupons  the 
firm  had  been  clipping  since  Dad  died. 

"  'Here's  the  key,'  he  told  me.  'If  your  answer 
had  been  yes,  these  bonds,  too,  would  have  gone 
to  the  church.  For  then  you  would  have  had  the 
gems.  Your  father  didn't  mean  to  leave  you 
penniless.  You  would  have  been  fairly  well  off, 
I  imagine,  whether  your  answer  had  been  Yes  or 
No.  Your  father  wanted  his  question  answered 
by  a  man  of  education,  and  I  think  he  would  be 
pleased  at  your  decision.'  " 

Jessamy  had  straightened  and  twisted  in  his 
arms  till  her  face  was  close  to  his. 

"Peter  Drew  never  hinted  at  that  to  me!"  she 
cried.  "I — I  suppose  you'd  have  nothing  but 
the  Old  Ivison  Place  if  you  answered  No.  Oh, 
my  romantic  Old  Peter  Drew!  God  rest  his 
soul !  I'm  so  glad." 

"Glad,  eh?"  He  smiled  whimsically  at  her, 
and  she  quickly  interpreted  his  thoughts. 

"Oh,  but,  Oliver — you  don't  understand !  It's 
not  that  you're  wealthy,  after  all — but  now  you 
can  give  Damon  Tamroy  just  what  the  cement 
company  would  have  paid  him  for  Lime  Rock!" 

"Lime  Rock  shall  be  your  wedding  gift,"  he 
laughed. 

"Oh,  Oliver!  And — and  when  we're — married, 


THE  ANSWER  307 

you  won't  take  me  away  from  the  Poison  Oak 
Country,  will  you,  dear!  I'll  go  anywhere  you 
say — but  these  hills,  and  the  river,  and  Lime 
Kock,  and  Old  Dad  Sloan,  and — my  Humming- 
bird— and  the  perfume  of  the  manzanita  blos- 
soms in  spring — and — oh,  I  love  my  country 
next  to  you,  dear  heart!  And  in  my  dreams  I 
loved  you  even  before  you  -came  riding  to  me  in 
the  silvermounted  saddle  of  Bolivio,  like  a  knight 
out  of  the  past.  This  is  my  country — and  if  we 
must  go,  I'll  pine  for  it — and  maybe  die  like  the 
Indian  bride.  I  want  to  stay  here,  Oliver  dear — 
with  you — down  on  the  dear  Old  Ivison  Place !" 
Oliver  tenderly  kissed  his  Star  of  Destiny.  "I 
have  no  other  plans,"  he  whispered  into  her  ear. 
"My  place  is  there.  ...  I  am  the  Watchman  of 
the  Dead  V9 


THE  END 


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